#she's always been sort of like a country rarity????

[lesbian-sunshim]

see art up to the day before or leave a tip!

rare pairs for your consideration - applejack x carrot top

#my little pony #mlp #applejack #carrot top #golden harvest #appletop #this series is a great excuse to draw my rarest of pairs that i've been into since i started in this fandom #i genuinely dont remember if golden harvest has a canon personality but for some reason to ME she' #she's always been sort of like a country rarity???? #probably largely due to her being The Rarity in shimmer verse #so yea this is a big fav of mine actually #also i took out the counter cause why would i do that to myself

[ikigaitsuki]

ᥫ᭡ WE’RE ABOUT TO LOSE EACH OTHER AND I’M FRIGHTENED | y.ji

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Summary — On this field, filled with trees and dandelions and daisies, is a pair of lovers who’s hearts must part but their souls never will. Who will lose in love but not in life. Who are afraid to part but know — they will find one another again.

Pairing — jeongin x gn!reader (they’re wearing a dress but that’s as specific as it gets)

Genre — smut, angst

CW — unprotected sex, kinda public sex, cream pie, marking (hickeys), it’s actually pretty tame

WC — 1864

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Hands, fleeting. Ankles brushing over the newly grown dandelions, sending the pollen flying everywhere. It dances in a strange way – it looks rhythmic, intentional, but in reality, it is as lost as the individuals running between it. It will land wherever it chooses, and grow in that space, awaiting more star-crossed lovers to disrupt its roots.

In his hands, he holds another. The skin warm to the touch, with each ridge and line indented into his memory. He never wants to forget this touch for as long as he lives. And in his other hand, he carries a picnic basket. It’s filled with sandwiches with only a small selection of fillings. There’s biscuits and fruit because he couldn’t quite think of what to pack. He counts himself to be no cook.

The weight of the basket feels so heavy in his arms despite bearing no weight.

His heart feels heavy in his chest, and he swears that this is the first time he’s ever been able to feel such a thing. He doesn’t know whether he wants to throw up or cry. Maybe both.

“Jeongin,”

His family resides on the richest part of the city. With large houses and seemingly everything within their attainment, it feels like an entirely knew world to someone who has never experienced such a thing. Jeongin knows no different, because he was always raised like this. Jeongin knew no different. But he is still kind.

His farther works in technology. It’s a recently new development, so he makes even more money than the average person can imagine. He’s humble, despite it all – a kind man who seeks pleasure from interactions with any sort of person. He likes to help people. He likes to be the reason for change. Most of all, he is proud of the man that his son is growing to be.

His mother is slender and kind – he has her eyes. She’s a surgeon, so she works long hours and on occasion, looks very tired. Although, that is a rarity. She also is well put together. She perhaps is a little shyer than Jeongin’s father is. She may not be the first person you can hear in a room, but she will be the first person you lay eyes on. She is simply gorgeous, and Jeongin is a beautiful reflection of that.

“Jeongin,”

His father recently received a new job opportunity. One that required the family to move to a new country. It may well be the turning point of his career, although that it itself is highly commendable. He sat for a while in silence whilst he processed the news. Here, this is where he lives. But he’s never considered this place home. This merely is a steppingstone. Now that his father has fulfilled his time here, he believes it is time to move on to the next place, so he accepted the job offer.

Yang Jeongin’s house looks bare. It is bare, because he’s moving across the country in under a day and his entire life has been packed into boxes and suitcases.

“Jeongin,” he is removed from his daze, “You’re crying,”

He touches his cheeks, which perspire with heat. His fingers return to his line of sight, and they confirm your statement, “Ah. So I am.” His voice comes out near a choke. He’s embarrassed.

You see, Jeongin feels like a dandelion seed. He was finally settled his roots, he has finally begun to grow in this place he had learned to call home. He had finally found everything that he wanted. But then soil was disrupted and he feels lost. He is floating around.

He wants the Earth to swallow him up. His tears won’t stop. He looks into your eyes and sees stars. He sees the entire universe. He sees the sunrise and the sunset and he sees the interchange of the seasons. He feels you in his orbit; he feels you running through his veins.

And then he realises that he has to leave you, and he sobs.

You’re in love.

It’s naïve and silly and people would probably question why the son of such a successful couple would fall in love with someone so ordinary­, someone, that, if you passed on the street, would hold no significance at all. Replaceable, that’s what they’d think.

But Jeongin doesn’t think so.

Even as your lip wobbles as you try to pour him a drink of pink lemonade that you bought from the nearest convenience store. You look so beautiful, even in sadness. Even when you clutched at one another’s skin, feeling nothing but desperation on the night that Jeongin told you the news that he was in fact leaving.

“Please don’t be sad,” you beg a little. The last thing you want to see is your lover like this. You can see how his heart is hurting. You want to take away that pain.

You realise that you’re crying too.

“I don’t want to let you go,”

“Then don’t. Hold me.” His skin on yours feels just right. The way his hands hold onto you, regardless of where they find themselves positioned. In every way, he is made for you.

It stays silent for a few moments. Your eyes are closed, and you’re taking in the noise – of the city below the high field, of the swishing of the trees and their long leaves in the wind; the cool breeze that ensues as the sun begins to make its disappearance. There isn’t so much time left.

“Jeongin,” his name falls so easily from your lips. It intoxicates the air around it. The boy looks at you with so much sorrow; looks at the dandelion seeds that blow with the gentle breeze, and realises it is much too late to wish for things to change. “Jeongin, make love to me,”

“Here?,”

“Here,” you kiss his tears, “Here on this land and let’s claim it as ours.”

He wastes no single moment, when your body falls into the grass and you feel like the soil yourself. You keep Jeongin rooted. Jeongin helps you grow.

Your sundress is made of a fabric which is soft to the touch. It’s light and easy to fiddle with, so Jeongin can keep dancing with your lips as he pulls it up. He’s not completely hard yet, so he takes his time to grind against you as you lay breathless beneath him. You’re aroused by your own desperation.

“Now,”

“Now.” Jeongin frees himself, carefully pushing aside your underwear before he fits inside you perfectly.

It feels at once as though everything and nothing matters at all. Not that the sun will set, nor rise again, not that the picnic is being discarded, not that Jeongin looks so pretty when he cries, and not that he thinks the same about you. But it also feels as though every second that passes is moving too quickly. It feels as though this is too much – that all of these things are in fact happening, and Jeongin and yourself will part, and your heart will not deal with it.

You clutch onto his biceps as his hips move slowly and rhythmically, something he’s become practiced in when it comes to you. And his eyes never once leave you. He’s grinning at you, but his tears do not cease. He’s moaning above you, but his cries sound pained.

You pull him down further, so that the angle in which he enters you feels deeper, and so his face is clearer to you. Must you not forget every mark on his face, every follicle in which a hair sprouts. His breath hits your neck as he speeds up, and his cries turn to grunts, and your wails turn to desperate utterances for more, to cum, to feel him and to be here.

His lips are soft – but then become harsh. He sucks against the flesh until you feel pain, and you know what he’s doing. You are his, after all. And though the marks he wishes to leave behind will not last forever, he knows that his intent will. He has ruined you for anyone who could ever come after him. This son of a businessman, this son of a surgeon, he lives such a blessed live that he has only cursed you with.

“I’m yours,” you cry out, when the pain becomes insufferable, and it blurs into pleasure.

He lifts his head so that his nose brushes yours, “Even after I’m gone, tell me I’ll be yours,”

“Forever.” you kiss, softly, and it burns. You can’t tire of his lips.

Love is a silly thing. It makes us feel such emotions, makes us become weak without realising, makes our hearts beat faster until they are ripped out before us. You will not stop loving Jeongin once he’s gone, and neither will you forget him. You will wait, and live this ordinary life, and hope that he doesn’t meet someone new once he settles in elsewhere, somewhere in a place you can only imagine, and you hope that he’ll return and tell you that there wasn’t and will never be anyone other than you.

He pulls your sundress up further, and pulls himself upward so that he can gain a better view of himself entering you. Not much longer, and he will topple over the edge. The view of this, and of your cheeks stained with tears, and of your pupils enlarged as you look at him with absolute adoration – this will be enough.

“I’m going to cum,” you whisper.

He says, “Me too.”

And he interlocks his fingers with yours, feeling the blades of grass that slip between and that comfort you. His hips stagger a few more times, and your mouths are open, breathless and panting into one another’s. Jeongin closes his eyes and sees stars. You close your eyes and see the moon.

This is how it’s meant to be.

Not with Jeongin’s family finding success elsewhere, not with the fear of being forgotten.

You’re supposed to be here, let Jeongin roam your skin and let your fingers taint his body so that anyone who wishes to touch him only feels you.

This is how it’s meant to be.

“I’m frightened,” you admit. You grasp both sides of his face, just where his jawline is, “We’re about to lose each other, and I’m frightened,”

“I know,” he kisses your shoulder blade as he slowly pulls out because he doesn’t want to cry again, leaking his essence from you, “But stay here, alright? Stay here, for me.”

You hold him, because that’s all you can do. In this field where there are trees and flowers and animals and the disregarded picnic blanket, where an onlooker might find it all insignificant but to you it is the entire world, you sob. Because that’s all you can do. And that’s all that he can do, because he needs to go soon.

“Stay here,” he whispers, his voice wobbling, “Stay here, and let me find you.”

It’s quiet, aside from your cries.

“Stay here. And if years pass, I will find you. Let’s find each other, and we can learn how to love again.”

© ikigaitsuki 2022

#jeongin smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz drabbles #skz jeongin smut #skz jeongin

[booksandwords]

The Prison Healer by Lynette Noni

Series: The Prison Healer, #1 Read time: 1 Day Rating: 2.5/5

The quote: Hope was a drug, and Kiva an addict. She couldn't keep believing, couldn't keep trusting, couldn't keep hoping. We will come. Ten years. Her family had waited ten years. We are coming They should have already come. Before nowbefore Tilda. But they hadn't. Hurt rose in Kiva's chest, blinding in its intensity, but she pushed it away, shoving it deep within her, just as she had for years. It was up to her now. Up to Kiva to survive. — Kiva Meridan

Book Meet Wall, Wall Meet Book.

Here we go. Let's get something out of the way, I don't hate The Prison Healer. It was great right up until the last chapter, I hate the ending. So like Shusterman's The Toll this gets a low rating. 3 rather than 2 because this is book 1 rather than the last book. I will say I am aware what I am about to say is quite possibly a personal hang up. I promise I will review the book as well.

The Prison Healer feels like another case of a book that should have been written as a stand-alone becoming part of a series. I am aware that is part of a wider issue with the publishing industry, not authors. But why oh why can't we have good quality stand-alone books, especially young adult fantasy books. Will I read The Gilded Cage when it is released? No, well not strictly no just highly, highly unlikely. That plot is set up to cause even more malicious pain to established and liked characters. From where this book ends I can see where the trilogy (?) is going to end but ugh the destruction and pain it will take to get there.

Moving onto the plot. The plot for this book is actually slightly more complicated than I originally expected it to be. Kiva Meridan is 17 and conscripted as a healer in Zalindov Prison the holds the worst of the worst in her country. She is despised by her fellow prisoners after selling her soul to save her life, she is the one that brands people. In the middle of winter, the soldiers bring in two new prisoners in quick succession, Jaren an older woman who is rumoured to be the Rebel Queen. There is also the arrival of a new female guard, a rarity. The Rebel Queen has been sentenced to the Trail of Ordeal, which asks her to face 4 trials one for each of the four elements. It is said to be unsurvivable. Due to the Rebel Queen's physical state, blackmail and her family Kiva volunteers to take the Trial of Ordeal in her place. The trials take place over 6 weeks, during those 6 weeks the prison starts to face a deadly plague as the healer Kiva needs to find the answer. All while dealing the charms of Jaren and all issues faced by being a female prisoner in an awful prison.

It's not simple but it is effective. It means the story is always moving, never the same for too long and shows multiple sides of the characters over time. Kiva's strength, intelligence and occasional weakness, Jaren's complicated side, caring and anger, Naari's well everything and Tipp's childish joy, smarts and love for Kiva. I like the writing. It does suit the characters. There are some charters with different speech patterns, some with language that indicates their lower levels of education or possibly intelligence. I'm guessing it does introduce the important future characters as best it can, particularly Mirryn. It does raise some interesting questions about survival and betrayal if you want to see them. Think about it in Nazi Germany terms (as it seems the most culturally prevalent) both in prisons and in places like Gurnsey that were occupied. The differences between pragmatism and evil. And the impact of psychological impacts of this situation. But you can just read it for enjoyment.

Never forget, little mouse: no two people loof the same, but we are each beautiful in our own ways. The human body is a masterpiece that deserves our respect. Always. — (Faren Meridan) This sort of quote shows up a lot when you are reading books with healers but I always really like them.

 Angeldust — There is a highly addictive drug in the book. It's deadly, it does kill at least one person that we see. We do see another set of side effects. Angeldust is a choice name for it. I'm assuming the name choice was deliberate. Angel Dust is the street name for Phencyclidine (PCP) a drug that causes a dissociative state.

"I have a lot of dreams. A lot of nightmares, too. Only time will tell which path my life will take" — (Kiva to Naari)

Because unlike Cresta, Kiva cared whether she lived or died, and she could that being obedient was more likely to keep her on this side of the overworld. She played the game, having chosen long ago to sacrifice her soul in order to save her life. — (Kiva) This is the question that I find the book asks. What would you do in Kva's situation? Comply and even help the guards or resist. (The Collaborator by Margaret Leroy asks similar questions)

"I'm sorry I acted like such a brute. It won't happen again." [...] "And just so you know, I don't see you as some kind of damsel who needs rescuing. I've never met anyone stronger than you — not just because you've survived a decade in this gods-awful place, but because you've sacrificed your own needs over and over again to serve those around you, even—and especially—those who don't want your help. So you're right, you don't need me fighting your battles." [...] "But... if you let me, I'd like to be standing beside you as you fight them." — (Jaren) This is a really strong moment.

"Never apologize for loving someone. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts." — (Jaren) There is serious context for this. But it is just a beautiful quote. Jaren is often the humanity to Kiva's pragmatic.

I have two favourite characters in The Prison Healer. The adorable Tipp and Naari a prison guard. Tipp is Kiva's assisstant Kiva describes him as "Tipp looked like a burning candle. He acted like one, too, full of energy and cracking with passion. At eleven years of age, nothing ever seemed to faze him.". Tipp is eleven and acts it, a ray of sunshine and hope in what can be quite a dark setting. While Kiva says she sees him as a brother sometimes she feels more like a mother. She is his guardian after promising to look after him after the death of his mother. The blurb is so misleading when it comes to the reason Kiva works so hard to keep Tilda the Rebel Queen alive. It's not her family, it's Tipp after his life is threatened by the rebels (hence my second quote). That whole thing is a testament to her love for him. My favourite quote Kiva says about him. He was meant for more than this. The world needs people like him out there in it, shining light into the dark places. He's wasted in here.

Naari Arell is the biggest surprise for me in the book. Naari is an extremely competent, compassionate and human character. One of the more unique aspects of her character is that she is an amputee, her disability is not a hindrance if anything it aids in her job. She becomes something of Kiva's protector and source of strength, spending time in the infirmary watching her work, taking her out of the prison as needed and being the nearest to her during the Trial by Ordeal. There are some truly beautiful moments between them one of my favourites is: her amber eyes locked on Kiva's and alight with forceful emotion, as if she were trying to share all her strength, all her confidence that Kiva would still be alive at the end of those ten minutes.. I'm going to be completely honest and say that her chemistry and relationship with Kiva was better than Jaren's. Thinking more than once make it sapphic.

This is called a dark, thrilling ya fantasy and it is that. Some warnings if you are interested in reading this. So some of the things that appear in this, drugs, death, sexual assault, self-harm, abuse, bullying and torture. The torture is both physical and psychological, with the psychological torture shown in the first person. I said in the intro such as it was that I don't hate this. It really is quite the opposite. I do recommend this to people who like fantasy. The micro slice of the world we see is well developed and from the maps (art by Francesca Baerald and they are stunning in their detail) it is clear that there is much more to this world, that Lynette Noni has thought it out. The plot does move at a good pace with the darker elements interwoven not dumped on you all at once. They aren't just there for shock value either, they are there for a reason and all make contextual sense.

#the prison healer #lynette noni #spoilers on goodreads #dissenting opinion #? i think i've only ever seen this get all the praise #but i don't hate it only the ending #book review #ktreviews #read 2021 #booklr

[fredbsmith]

Discovering My Father

A Memoir

My childhood memories contain no trace of my father.

He was present in my childhood only in the very earliest years, infancy years, before memories can form and stay with you.  He was away, in the Navy serving as a ship’s doctor in the Pacific during World War II while I was still in diapers.  He was never to return to us.  My mother learned of incidents of infidelity during his travels and banished him from the household forever.

Mama’s banishment decree created a vast separation between him and what remained of our nuclear family.  He was never to be spoken of at home, nor his existence acknowledged.   Mama remarried, after the divorce, a man 10 years younger than herself, and she arranged for my younger sister and me to be legally adopted by our new stepfather.  We took on his surname, and the order was given that we must now call him, and think of his as, our father. 

This radical restructuring of our family troubled me in the ensuing years.  My true father had had to sign off on the adoption papers, in return for which he was relieved of any child support obligations.  I found myself wishing he had refused, had angrily denounced this slashing of all bonds between us, we who were his flesh and blood!  Could I ever forgive him for that?

My stepfather came from the rural South; unlike my mother, he had received no education beyond high school; and he had always worked in blue-collar jobs.  He had been raised in a fundamentalist Christian family, and he saw the world in stark, black-and-white tones, full of wickedness and insolence, demanding draconian punishments.  He professed love for me at times, but even at my young age I could sense this was perfunctory, not genuine.  I remember more vividly how strongly he felt that I, a coddled Mama’s boy, was sorely in need of punishment, which he proceeded to administer liberally.  One of the cruelest punishments I received, a prolonged beating with a rubber hose, was for forgetting one of my assigned daily household chores.  I think he had interpreted my lapse in duties as an act of defiance of his commands; I look back on it, to this day, as a typical oversight committed by the absent-minded, day-dreamy sort of person that I have always been.

I was puzzled, as I grew older, by the obvious strength of the marriage bond between my mother and stepfather, and by the way she appeared to defer to him in so many family matters.  She was clearly more intelligent and more learned than he; she had a BA degree from the University of Chicago, after all, the sort of distinction which was quite a rarity among the residents of the small town in Western Colorado where we lived.  As the years went on, my stepfather proved a failure as a family breadwinner, and Mama then became our sole financial support.  I now wonder if Mama wasn’t doing a little bit of acting back then, taking on the role of subservient homemaker to make us appear more like one of the conventional nuclear families we were seeing on television.  I also wonder if she over-valued her marital relationship because, with the bitter memory of her first marriage, she knew my stepfather was not the sort of man who would ever betray her.

I am often troubled reflecting on Mama’s passive acceptance of the abuse I was receiving from my stepfather.  Did she really believe that the beatings, as well as his continual teasing and belittling of me, were in my best interest?  She had absorbed certain cultural attitudes of the American South from her own father, a Bavarian immigrant who had spent his first years in his adopted country there, learning American norms and customs in Slaughter, Louisiana.  Perhaps she really believed that boys needed to be physically beaten and verbally assaulted, to toughen them up, to grow up properly.  In any case, I never understood why this otherwise active, independent, outspoken woman, who seemed to have such a deep understanding of the world, never stood up for me.  Such thoughts created a barrier that prevented me from ever trying, as an adult, to develop and nurture the loving, open relationship with my mother that I would otherwise have wished for.

Throughout my teen years, I yearned for escape from the toxic environment I had at home.  Coming into young manhood, I was accepted at a prestigious college in the East, and I saw this as a kind of salvation, since I now had a practical excuse for minimizing my visits back to Colorado.  Thereafter, I maintained both a geographic and emotional distance from home, which initially brought me some degree of comfort.

As years went by, the distance sustained a sense of relief but not of happiness.  I was, in fact, quite a sad young man.  I came to learn that people who have been abused as children tend to develop the habit of self-blaming.  For some reason, it is easier to accept suffering as the predictable result of your own shortcomings, and therefore something theoretically you might be able to correct, than to acknowledge that you have been dealt a bad hand by the universe and that you are powerless to do anything about it.  In any case, I had become remarkably proficient at self-blame.  Feeling that all of the things that go wrong in the world around you are your own fault is a sure-fire recipe for perpetual sadness.

It took many years of life as a young adult, and processing of memories on a therapist’s couch, before I recognized that there was a step I could take which would help me to heal the wounds inflicted upon me in childhood.  It was to search out and find my father.  This seemed an important task in coming to terms with the reality of my situation and reducing the burden of exaggerated self-blame I had taken on.

I undertook the project during the years I was doing residency training, the beginning of the 1970’s, when I was in my late twenties.  I had little information about my father other than his somewhat unusual French-sounding surname, “Mafit,” the surname I bore through the first grade in school, and the fact that he had received medical training.  Assuming that he was still alive, was practicing medicine somewhere in the United States and that he would have become certified in some medical specialty, I was able to locate a promising candidate by searching the reference section of my medical school’s library.  There was an obstetrician-gynecologist in Roseburg, Oregon, named Mafit, whose dates of medical school graduation and of naval service seemed appropriate for my father.  I was interested to see that this Dr. Mafit had done his ob/gyne residency at Washington University in St. Louis in the years immediately following the end of the war.  That was the time period in which my adoption had been transacted.  If this was indeed my father’s record I was seeing, it meant that he would have made the decision to sign the adoption papers while employed, hundreds of miles from where his children were living, as a hospital resident, a position that in those days required literally residing within the hospital’s walls and being available to provide care to the hospital’s patients around the clock.   It would have provided little or no salary and he likely would not have been able to hire a lawyer.   This would not fully justify his willingness to give up his children, but it went part of the way as an explanation, providing a glimpse of how restricted he was in his ability to act and allowing me to imagine how painful it would have been to be a parent trapped by these circumstances.

I sent off a brief handwritten letter to this Dr. Mafit at his listed office address, saying that I believed him to be my father with whom I had lost touch many years back, and, if my supposition was correct, would he be interested in writing to me?  I received an immediate reply (“immediate” for the days of snail mail) saying that he was indeed my father, corroborated by the enclosure of an old photograph of him holding me as a baby.  He said that for years he had been hoping I would reach out to him, and he thanked me for doing so and praised the courage he thought it must have taken.  He understood the depth of Mama’s antipathy toward him and explained that that was the reason he had not taken the first step.  He anticipated I had been told many bad things about him growing up, which he hoped he would have the opportunity to counter.  (Actually, I had been told almost nothing about him; the worst I had been told was that he was a man who cared nothing for his children, which the reply letter itself seemed to disprove.)  He signed the letter, “your loving father, Ted.”

We wrote letters to each other periodically, he more faithfully and promptly than I, over the following years, the years of his life that remained, and we visited each other on both coasts once every year or so.  I learned much about him, although I was, of course, not seeing him from the perspective I would have had as a growing child.

He was a tall, tanned, white-haired man, who spoke slowly and softly and with a western drawl, which belied the enormous drive and energy that lay below the surface.  He had carried on a solo practice of ob/gyne in this small city for his entire professional career, which meant he could be called on 24/7, around the clock and around the calendar, to report to the hospital to perform a delivery or emergency surgery.

He was never inclined to take on a partner, or involve himself in a group practice typical of most of today’s ob/gynes.  I believe he was, in his heart, a committed loner.  He valued his independence; he was one of the original maverick practitioners in Oregon who made the national news when they resigned en masse from the state medical society after it started requiring regular continued medical education as a condition of membership.

He had a number of friends and professional contacts, with whom he had cordial but not close relationships.  I suspected he was a man who had difficulty with intimacy.  He married three more times after the breakup with my mother, each time to a successively younger woman.  He had three daughters with his second wife, my half-sisters, who are about half a generation younger than I.  They all had the experience of looking to him as a dad when little, and they told me that he had seemed distant to them in those years.

Ted's second wife, Melba.

It came up once in conversation that one of his teachers when he was in training was Dr. William Masters, who had later acquired national attention for his work, with Dr. Virginia Johnson, on human sexuality.  When I asked Ted what Masters was like, he remembered him as “a scrupulously honest man” and “a very dedicated researcher.”  He didn’t have much to say about the popular book and I was left with the impression that he didn’t do much sexual counseling in his ob/gyne practice.

In his early years of practice, he had traveled to New York to attend lectures at Cornell Medical School being given by Dr. George Papanicolaou, the originator of the screening test for cancer of the cervix of the uterus now known as the “Pap smear.”  Ted wanted to be able to offer this test to his patients, but many medical laboratories didn’t do it; there was a lot of skepticism in the medical community at the time, probably because Papanicolaou himself was a scientist who studied reproductive physiology in monkeys and not a medical doctor.  So Ted learned to do the test himself, and, after acquiring official certification, performed it in his office laboratory up until his retirement.

He incorporated elective abortions into his practice after the Roe v. Wade decision made them permissible.  He took referrals from the other ob/gyne specialist in Roseburg, who was a Roman Catholic and had personal religious objections to the procedure.  Ted himself professed no religion.  He did not believe in unlimited access to abortion, however.  Any woman who asked him to terminate her pregnancy first had to demonstrate that she had a reasonable plan for avoiding unplanned pregnancies in the future (he would, of course, assist her with this), and she was advised that he never performed a second abortion on the same patient.

He was passionate about his hobby of fly fishing, which he indulged in almost daily.  He had used much of the wealth generated from his practice to purchase an estate whose back lawn was bordered by the North Umpqua River, so that he could do fly-casting from his back yard. 

Ted was addicted to, but seemingly not impaired by, alcohol.  The addiction was integrated into another consuming hobby, winemaking and viticulture.  He purchased land for a vineyard adjacent to his home and acquired a second vineyard later, a few miles away.  When he retired from his practice, he became a professional vintner.  He drank a bottle of wine daily as a matter of course, and he believed it did not affect his ability to do a delivery or emergency operation when called on in his off-hours.  I realize this is a claim many would find implausible.  I certainly did not perceive any effect from his drinking when we dined together; he remained the quiet, reserved, dignified, soft-spoken man he always was.  His colleagues and support staff at the hospital, who had observed his performance over many years, appeared never to have suspected his alcohol use.  In his last days, after he was admitted to the hospital’s Coronary Care Unit with a coronary artery occlusion that was to prove fatal, he developed a seemingly bizarre neurological syndrome that mystified the hospital staff.  They discussed bringing in an outside neurological specialist to consult.  His daughter and wife had to quietly suggest that what they were witnessing was delirium tremens, and that it would disappear if he was given alcohol.  To make such a diagnosis on a respected senior member of their medical staff would never have occurred to them.

In addition to the character-defining traits I’ve just outlined, I also learned some things about my father that must, I suppose, be considered trivia, but which I’ve always found endearing:

He was spectacularly good-looking in pictures from his youth, with his dark hair and moustache making him resemble Douglas Fairbanks or Ronald Coleman.  Many NY friends to whom I introduced him on his visits here commented on how dashing he was.

His full name was Trowbridge Rudolph Mafit.  The Mafits seemed to have a penchant for giving their offspring colorful names.  My paternal grandmother’s first name was Theil, and she had had two sisters whose names were Leith and Devere.  My three half-sisters were named after them, Andrea Leith, Leslie Theil, and Dana Devere.

Ted had become famous among members of the fly-fishing community for the flies that he designed and crafted himself.  One such hand-tied fly was the subject of a feature article in Field and Stream, and it was later marketed commercially as the “Doc’s Fly.”

He also acquired fame among Oregon winemakers.  The local county museum to this day has on display a bottle of white pinot noir that he produced sometime in the 1970s, believed to be the first of this variety to originate in Oregon.

Ted owned 23 cats at the time of my first Oregon visit, three Siamese inhabiting the house, the remainder domestic short-hairs roaming about his estate.  They all had names.  He joked that he was emulating, and hoping to surpass, Ernest Hemingway in their number.

It was during his final days that my father and I once again became separated.  I actually did not realize it was happening at all, at the time, that he had begun the process of dying.  He wrote me two letters describing the coronary events that he had experienced.  He somehow managed to use descriptive medical language to minimize the seriousness of his condition; he made it seem as if he would be back on his feet, working his vineyards any day now.  I fell for it, and decided I would not plan my next visit to Oregon until he had recovered.

It came as a shock when I was notified that he had died.  I flew to Roseburg to attend the funeral.  My heart broke when I saw photographs of him in the days before he died, the days when he was writing me the cheery letters; he was gaunt, disheveled, in distress, and obviously a seriously ill man in those photos.  I re-read the letters and slowly began to appreciate his artful use of the medical language to alleviate my concern.  There was only one unequivocal deception on his part; he claimed in his letters that he was being told he was not a candidate for coronary artery bypass surgery.  My sisters and his wife, who witnessed the events in real time, let me know that the opposite was the case.  His doctors repeatedly implored him to consent to surgery, and, each time, he adamantly refused.

I’ve concluded that he simply wanted to die alone, and with as little revelatory conversation as possible.  He did not want me to come to say good-bye to him in person.  It would have been too painful for him.  The exposure of his alcoholism on his death bed must have been mortifying to him; he just wanted to slip away quietly.

This seemed to encapsulate the sort of man he was, a man to whom peace and preservation of his dignity was all important.  He was not a street fighter like Mama.  He could never have taken her on in a brawl. 

To return to my original question, the issue of forgiving him for abandoning his parental rights at the time of the divorce now seems irrelevant.  What I had earlier yearned for from him was simply not in him to give.  And I am at peace with that now.

#memoir #father #reunion

[five-sparrows-two-pennies]

a rarity & her utter confusion

10 December 2022

A few days ago, my mum and my sister flew out. Though the rest of my family is here, they are often home late so I have had much time to myself. Solitude has not been as sweet as previously.

Normally, the house is so busy and noisy and all I want is just a few hours to myself - a great rarity. I think back to my time of studying interstate: though my memory is poor, I cannot really remember feeling so... lonely. It is likely because life was so busy and there was always more studying to do. Life was too stressful to feel lonely. But this time, it is different.

I am working now, and normally, the weeknights are fleeting. This time though, with my mum not here, the weeknights stretch out. I don’t really know what to do with myself. I do not like to use the word lonely lightly. In fact, I would take much offense if somebody ever dared say I seemed lonely. But I am, sort of. 

I know God is always with me, but this experience has taught me our need for other people - a need I often refuse and rebel against because my mum taught me to be independent. But now, my mind goes to the single mothers (widowed, divorced, living in a different country to their husbands) whose children have grown up and moved out. My mind goes to the women who are well past middle-age, but whom have never married. My mind goes to the retired women whose husbands have passed. Surely, they must feel lonely?

But then I think about the friend of Elisabeth Elliot - an old widow, I think, who lived alone and who was utterly confused when Elisabeth asked her how she copes with loneliness. Lonely? She was not lonely. She woke up every day excited to see what God had planned for her. It’s God’s agenda, she said, not mine.

#chronicle #faith #Christian writing

[keanureevesisbae]

sugar sugar - the planning 3.0

Summary: Someone the engaged couple both didn’t expect, is coming back into their lives

Sugar Daddy!Henry Cavill x Becky Kim (asian OFC)

Warnings: Light mentions of an argument. Mentions of hospital, cock warming (it’s becoming their thing now) and some rough sex (spanking, anal play, vibrators - the whole deal)

Wordcount: 4.9k

Masterlist // Sugar Sugar Masterlist // Sugar Sugar the wedding Masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

March 1st 7 p.m.

Work has been killing Henry lately. He grows more and more tired and to my own surprise, he is even in a bad mood every now and then, a rarity when it comes to Henry. He hates talking about what is bothering him and I hate having to pry.

But it has been enough. I don’t like the fact he continues to lock himself in his office at work and I decide to surprise him. He always likes surprises, especially these ones I arranged myself.

I barge into his office and I see… He is actually taking a nap? That’s new. He only takes naps at home, with his hands slipped underneath my shirt, his head resting on my chest. His eyes flutter open, ready to scold anyone who came in, until he realizes it’s just me.  ‘Thought I locked the elevator,’ he says, ‘made it unavailable.’

‘I have a surprise for you,’ I say, as I walk up to him and ignoring the fact that he might’ve made it unavailable for me as well to come up here. He probably didn’t mean it like that.

‘Okay, what is it?’

I hop on an empty corner of his desk. ‘I made reservations for us at the Plaza and afterwards, you and I can do all sorts of things in all sorts of compromising positions, if you know what I mean.’

Henry frowns, the complete opposite reaction I was expecting. ‘I can’t, baby.’

‘Why not?’ I ask him. ‘I checked your schedule and it’s all free. You have time and you should take time. You’ve been working really hard.’

‘I know, but I can’t. I have too much to do here.’

I don’t understand. He has been working non stop this week and he still doesn’t have time? He always makes time for me, for us. ‘It’s just one night, Henry,’ I try again.

‘I already told you that I can’t.’

Oh, he is in a mood? Never did he sound so… Flat and borderline annoyed when he is talking to me.

‘Oh,’ I say, not really sure how to handle this type of disappointment. ‘Sure?’

‘Damn it, Becky. Yes, I’m sure. I have tons of work to do and I cannot afford to take a break now! Some people actually have tons of work to do.’

Okay, he is mad at me now, something I totally didn’t deserve. I think I didn’t deserve it, I’m not even sure right now. Maybe this was too much? Yeah, it was too much. I shouldn’t have done that. ‘Well, excuse me for trying to do something nice for you,’ I say, sliding off his desk. ‘Good luck with work.’

‘Are you mad?’ he asks me.

He has some guts. Yes, I’m mad. ‘No, why on earth would I be?’ I ask in a petty tone, as I walk backwards towards the elevator. ‘Bye Henry, hope you finish your work.’

‘Baby, wait,’ he says, but I don’t listen. With large strides I near the elevator and get in, not even looking at him anymore. As the doors slide shut, I grab my phone and send both Genevieve and Viola a text.

Becky: You girls want to spend the evening at the Plaza?

Genevieve: Is that even a question?

Viola: When?

Becky: Thirty minutes?

Genevieve: I’ll be there in ten.

✤ ✤ ✤

Genevieve, Viola and I are sitting in the Plaza, the three of us looking over the city, as we enjoy the view. Well, they are enjoying the view. I keep on thinking about Henry. He never snaps at me like that, just like he never calls me by my name. It’s always sweetheart, darling or my favorite: baby girl. For him to call me ‘Becky’ means I did something wrong, right? Was I out of line? Should I have checked with him? I mean, surprises are meant to surprise, so I shouldn’t have told him, right?

My brain is working overtime, unable to actually enjoy hanging out with my friends.

‘Earth to Becky,’ Viola says, nudging my side. I look up from my wine glass. ‘Honey, you’re still thinking about you and Henry? It’s just a little set back, nothing too bad.’

‘Oh my,’ Genevieve says, ‘are you that disgusting type of couple that never fight? I fight with Greg all the time.’

‘We know,’ Viola butts in. ‘Come on, Gen, you know that Becky doesn’t do well with fighting. Besides, Henry is the type of man that is above pointless fights with his fiancée. Becky, what can we do for you?’

‘I don’t know. Cancel the wedding?’

Genevieve chokes on her drink. ‘For heaven’s sake, Becky, please tell me that is a joke. I swear, if you are going to cancel, I will kill you.’

I glare at her. ‘It may have been a poorly misplaced joke and a total overreaction from my side. Sorry.’

She takes a breath out of utter belief. ‘Don’t do that. I can take jokes about a lot of things, but not our wedding day.’

‘My wedding day, Gen. I’m the one getting married.’

She snorts. ‘Okay,’ she chuckles, rolling her eyes as if she cannot possibly believe that I just called it my wedding, instead of ours. ‘Anyways, I actually got a call from the bridal shop. The bridesmaids dresses are gonna be done at the end of the month, so make sure you can join us for the final fitting.’ Genevieve lets out a squeal. ‘Ah, I’m so excited. You know what comes after the wedding?’

‘Honeymoon?’ Viola and I ask.

‘Yes, that too, but also kids. I think that we should get at least once get pregnant together, because that is such a cute friendship thing for us to do.’

I don’t know if I can handle being pregnant and dealing with Gen’s hormonal mood swings, but I keep those words to myself.

‘Since our little baby factory is probably gonna have a few, Viola and I will have time enough to get it right.’

‘Do you have to call me a baby factory?’ I ask Genevieve. ‘I say once that a large family is okay for me and all of the sudden I’m a baby factory.’

‘I mean, you’re having at least two and with the way you guys are at it, there is a chance his little soldiers will find their way multiple times. One way or another.’

‘Stop talking,’ I say to Genevieve, as blood rises to my cheeks.

Viola tries to contain her laughter, but fails miserably. ‘Are you finally gonna tell her?’

Now I’m confused. ‘Tell me what?’

‘A few months back I kinda walked in on the two of you.’

Genevieve could’ve literally told me that she was gonna be president of name a country and I wouldn’t be as surprised as I am now. ‘What?’

‘Yeah, you left your keys at my place, so I figured I would bring them to you. However when I walked in, I was met with loud moans and skin slapping.’

Oh, no, I want to die.

‘It was really hilarious,’ she continues, ‘because you were on the back rest of the couch and let’s just say that you have a respectable boob size, you two kiss hella sloppy and Henry’s ass naked is delicious.’

I look at my glass of wine and gulp it all down, hoping that drinking my embarrassment and humiliation away would make the situation less awful.

It’s not working.

‘I kinda wished you never told me this,’ I mumble.

Viola finally bursts out into the loud laughter I was expecting from her a few moments ago. ‘This is gold, I wished I had this reaction on video.’

Genevieve chuckles. ‘So yeah, when I say you two are at it like bunnies, I’m not lying.’

✤ ✤ ✤

When I arrive back at the apartment, I almost forgot about the little situation Henry and I got ourselves in. Genevieve and Viola always know the exact things to tell me that makes me forget about a lot. Seeing Henry sitting on the couch, clearly beating himself up, almost makes me feel sorry for him, however I decide to be a petty bitch.

He really did hurt my feelings.

I walk straight to the kitchen and despite me hearing him follow me, I disregard my instinct and don’t turn towards him.

‘Becky,’ he says, his tone soft and slightly unsure. Him calling out my name in a tone like this, is an indication he is aware of the thin ice he is skating on.

‘Mhm?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for? You were busy and I was intruding.’ I let the tea bag soak for a few moments. ‘You know, Genevieve, Viola and I had a great time together,’ I continue. ‘I arranged amazing seats at the Plaza. It had a view over the Hudson and we saw a lot of fairies.’ I know those are his favorite spots and he always tells me that one day he’ll take me on a fairy. ‘Never been on a fairy before.’ That’s a jab I knew would hurt the most. Damn, I’m awful. With the mug in my hand, I turn around, to see that Henry is looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘How was work? Did you finish it?’

He shakes his head.

Don’t say it, Becky. ‘Oh, why not?’ Damn it, Becky.

‘You serious?’ he asks. ‘We had an argument.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly, Henry. It wasn’t an argument. You were working and I had some poor planning. A small misunderstanding. Happens to all the couples some day.’

He sighs. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you in that tone,’ he says. ‘You were right, I could’ve needed a break. Work has been killing these last few weeks and I… I keep convincing myself I can do it all…’ He leans against the kitchen island and folds his arms. ‘Truth is, we lost some investors and I’ve been trying to rectify the situation. It’s just that it’s not working.’

Oh, I didn’t know that. Now I feel sorry for being so bitchy to him. ‘I see,’ I mumble. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t want you to worry,’ he says.

‘You understand that I can read you like a book, right?’ I ask him. ‘Henry, I’m gonna be your wife, I know when something is bothering you.’

‘I know and to take it out on you, wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.’

I nod, placing the mug on the counter. ‘I’m sorry too.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For being petty and inconsiderate of your time. I shouldn’t have just surprised you like that. I know you’re busy.’

‘But never too busy for you. You did everything right. Checked my schedules, arranged it at a time where I barely have anything to do. It was the perfect surprise. Having dinner with you at the Plaza is one of my favorite places to have dinner with you. Staring at those fairies is what we do.’ He carefully approaches, still unsure whether or not we’re on the same page. ‘You have nothing to apologize for. The only one who was at fault was me.’

I grab him by his tie and pull him in a hug, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. He nuzzles his face in my neck, whispering soft apologies.

‘It’s all good,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for being petty.’

‘No, no, no, don’t be. I deserved that one. Especially after the tone I used on you.’ He pulls back a little and presses a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. ‘How about I take you to dinner tomorrow night?’

‘Sounds good. But you have to call this time,’ I say.

Henry raises his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You made the reservations yourself?’

I nod. ‘Hence the reason I might got a little bit extra defensive.’

He smiles at me, before giving me a kiss. ‘I’m so proud of you, baby. Practice makes perfect.’

‘I know,’ I say with a soft smile on my lips. ‘We’re good again?’

‘More than good,’ he chuckles. He lifts me on the counter and stands in between my legs. ‘How was it with Genevieve and Viola?’

‘Good,’ I say, ‘just discovered that Genevieve once walked in on us having sex.’

His eyes enlarge. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ I say. ‘She told me I have a respectable boob size, we kiss sloppy and that your naked ass looks really good.’

He lets out a nervous chuckle. ‘Your boobs are perfect,’ he says and I slap him across his chest. ‘You know I can never look at her again?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I laugh. ‘It’s nothing. She’ll just pester us with it for a while and then she finds something else to humiliate me with. Really, it’s no big deal.’

March 20th 2 p.m.

I place the groceries in the fridge, after I got back home. I actually want to plan cooking Henry some dinner so I bought all the ingredients I think I need. He always does so much for me, so it’s only fair that I’m doing it too every once in a while.

Let’s just hope I don’t fail miserably.

My phone starts to ring and I quickly pick up. ‘Hello.’

‘Good afternoon, is this Becky Kim?’ a female voice asks.

I frown. ‘Yes, this is her. Is everything alright?’

‘My name is Alicia, a nurse at NewYork-Presbyterian. I’m calling in regards of Sehun Kim.’

Dad? That Sehun Kim? Too say I’m absolutely flabbergasted is an understatement. ‘Excuse me if I come off extremely rude, but I’m sure I’m not registered as his next of kin. Isn’t there someone else to call?’

‘Well miss Kim, you are his next of kin. Your father had a ruptured appendix. Thankfully he got to the hospital in time, but his health is severely declined. We are keeping him here for a few days, to see if everything is alright.’

I lean against the sink, thinking about my next move. ‘Is there anyone with him right now?’ I ask.

‘No, miss.’

I sigh deeply. What to do, what to do? ‘I’ll be there shortly.’ When I hang up the phone, I arrange the chauffeur to drive me to the hospital and I grab some stuff I need. As I step into the elevator, I text Henry to tell him what’s going on.

Becky: My dad is in the hospital, I’m going there right now

Daddy 🥰: Darling, are you okay? Do you need anything?

Becky: I’m taking the driver. Just be there when I get home?

Daddy 🥰: Of course, baby girl. Just tell me when you need something, okay?

Becky: Will do

✤ ✤ ✤

I have been looking at my father for a few minutes now from behind the glass. He looks a lot older than I remember him. I wonder why I’m next of kin and not my mom or my siblings.  I mean, he hasn’t seen me in so long, I literally told my family I never wanted to see them anymore and that included him.

With my arms crossed in front of my chest, I hesitate whether or not I’m gonna open that door and walk into his room.

I mean, I kinda want to.

I always felt like my father and I were pretty much the same, however he never showed me how much he loved me. It always seemed easier to love my siblings than me, but maybe there were certain things that held him back.

I never asked him and now I finally have a chance.

Finally I mustered up the confidence to just do it. I open the door and walk in. He is awake and looks at me, but like usual he isn’t saying anything. It could be hurtful, but it doesn’t feel like that. I walk towards the side of the bed. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask him.

Still he is unable to talk, but I see it. I see his eyes filling with tears and for the first time in forever, I see the hurt he probably had to endure all this time.

‘Dad, please say something to me.’

‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ he then says, his voice breaking in the process. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘For not standing up to you. For not being the dad you deserved, you needed.’ He rubs his eyes with his fingers and adds: ‘What kind of father allows this type of crap?’

I honestly don’t know, so all I can do is simply shrug. ‘I’m guessing mom wasn’t too kind on you either.’

He shakes his head. ‘She wasn’t.’

‘Then why didn’t you divorce her?’ I ask, in a harsher tone then I originally intended to. ‘Took me with you? We could’ve been happy, dad, just the two of us.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Then why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you stand up for me?’

‘Because I was scared.’ It must be so painful for him to admit it, but I rather want him being honest with me, then him dancing around the subject. He was scared and I can’t blame him for it. Mom was (and I presume still is) pretty scary and if she was mean to me, I don’t think I can even fathom what happened between her and dad.

‘But why am I next of kin?’ I ask. ‘You have Liam and Celine.’

‘They are not you,’ he says and that hits something deep in my heart. ‘I was too scared to call you and tell you how sorry I am, so I changed you to my next of kin a few months back. I know, it was weak and I’m a coward, but it was the only way I felt like I could do ever talk to you again.’

It happens before I can even stop it. I place my hand on his and at first, dad doesn’t move, but then he holds my hand tightly in his.

‘I’m sorry, Becky. I’m so sorry.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know.’

‘I can’t imagine what you went through. I should’ve been there for you, I should’ve protected you.’

I don’t know what to say, so I simply grab a chair and drag it next to his bed, before taking place on it. ‘Then tell me everything you went through,’ I whisper, ‘maybe we can understand each other.’

✤ ✤ ✤

The afternoon turned into the night and it’s already seven p.m. when I arrive back the penthouse. It was both draining and very insightful. Everything I went through, my dad went through as well, for being a more shy personality, more serious and less out there. While I knew he would draw the short end of the stick when we were all together, he got it real bad when he was alone with my mom. The thing was: it didn’t stop when I moved out, when I told them I never wanted to see them again.

It only got worse.

Somehow me ending up in juvie, was his fault.

I close the door of the apartment and Henry says: ‘There you are. Baby girl, how are you?’

‘I’m okay,’ I say, though that is not quite the truth. ‘It went well.’

Henry stands up and walks over to me. ‘Glad to hear.’ He gives me a kiss, as his hands find mine. ‘Your dad is gonna be okay?’

‘Yeah, he just has to stay to see if all goes well tonight.’ I let out a deep sigh. ‘I missed him.’

He nods, allowing me to find the words to describe how I’m feeling.

‘We talked for a long while,’ I continue. ‘But I’m going back tomorrow, because I feel like we have a lot to catch up on. Wanna join me?’

‘If you want me to, I’ll happily go, you know that.’

I don’t want to cry, I think I did that enough the last few hours, however a few tears escape. ‘Daddy, can you hold me?’

He doesn’t waste a single second, before he hoists me up in his arms, holding me closely to his body. ‘I’m right here, sweetheart.’

I close my eyes, as I cling onto him. I start to sniffle, but it’s enough for Henry to be alerted.

‘Baby girl. What is it? What do you need?’

‘A hug.’

He pulls back a little and cocks an eyebrow. ‘That kind of hug?’

I nod. ‘Please?’

‘Of course.’ He carries me to the sauna, where he undoes me from my clothing and quickly shreds himself from his. We step into the hot sauna and I sit on his lap, before he starts the preparations. His hands massage my entire body, as I place my forehead against his. ‘I love you,’ he whispers against my lips.

‘I love you too.’

‘You did well today.’ He squeezes my breasts in his large hands, flicking my nipples and it’s already doing its magic trick in between my legs. ‘I’m proud of you, because it mustn’t be easy.’ He gives me a kiss, before he brings his lips to my hardened nipple, wrapping them around the sensitive nub.

I kiss him on his hairline. ‘You are?’

‘Oh baby, you have no idea.’

I reach down, grabbing his semi hard cock and rub his tip against my clit. I whimper, causing Henry to look up. He kisses me, soft and slow. ‘When you’re ready,’ he says.

I line him up near my throbbing entrance and I sink onto him, biting away the slight pain as I stretch around him. Henry rubs my clit and the pain quickly subdues. He leans back against the wall, pulling me onto his chest, his fingers drawing soft circles on my back.

I don’t know how long we are in this position, but when I open my eyes again, I feel pretty drowsy, almost like I fell asleep.

Henry is already awake, still holding me close against him, not caring that we’re both drenched in sweat. ‘Hi, baby girl,’ he whispers.

‘Hi.’

‘You were gone for quite a while. We’ve been here for an hour, or so.’

I smile. ‘I feel better, thank you.’

‘That’s good, that’s good.’ He gives me a kiss and says: ‘You look better.’

‘Daddy,’ I whisper, ‘I love you.’

‘Oh, I love you too.’

I rock my hips on his and he hums in content. ‘Fuck me,’ I beg. ‘Please do. I need it.’

‘How do you need it?’ he asks. ‘Rough? Soft? I’ll give it to you, baby girl. Just tell me what you need.’

I bite my lip. ‘I need it rough, daddy. Please, I need it rough.’

✤ ✤ ✤

When I ask for rough, I’ll get it even rougher. Henry used his tie to restrain my hands above my head, so he has his hands free to press the vibrator against my clit while he pounds himself inside of me. He is ruthless, but that is exactly what I need.

My mind is blank, as the only things I feel is being overpowered, loved and taken care of. I don’t know how many times I already came, but my sobs are quite telling.

‘You gonna cum again, baby?’

I nod, before my eyes roll back and my juices squirt passed him. Telling from his grunts, he is close as well.

‘Shit, baby girl, you feel so fucking good around me.’ He throws the vibrator to the side, tightening his grip on my hips, as I ride out my high. I’m a crying mess, tears dripping over my cheeks and that’s about the same time his hips stutter against mine, his warm seed spilled deep inside of me. He unties my hands, before giving me a sloppy kiss. ‘You okay?’ he asks, still buried inside of me.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’

‘You feel better?’

I smile. ‘I do, thank you, daddy. I needed that.’

He gives me a kiss on my lips and wipes away the tears. ‘You want to talk about it or not?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. I’m just glad you helped me out here.’ I place my hands on his chest. ‘Could need a shower, though.’

‘I know,’ he chuckles. ‘How about you take a shower, I’ll clean up in here and then join you?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ I whisper. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, baby girl.’

March 21st 11 a.m.

The next day I’m back at the hospital, only this time I took Henry with me. He holds my hand in his and gives me a reassuring kiss on my fingers. ‘You want me in there with you two immediately?’ he asks me.

I don’t need to think about that for very long, because I quickly nod. ‘Of course. I actually quite need you in there.’

We stop in front of his door and I take a deep breath before knocking three times and peaking around the corner. ‘Dad,’ I say, causing him to look up from his book, ‘I’m back and brought someone.’

Henry and I step into the room and my dad nods, taking in Henry. ‘Your fiancé,’ dad says, closing his book. Yesterday I told him a lot about Henry already, especially because my dad read my interview and actually figured out how to check my Instagram. It was his own way to keep track of me and for some odd reason, I’m glad he did. He holds out his hand and Henry is quick to take it. ‘I’m Sehun, nice to meet you.’

‘My name is Henry, sir. It’s great to meet you too.’ He pulls two chairs next to dad’s bed and we both take a seat.

I take his hand into mine and say: ‘Dad, how are you feeling?’

‘Better, better.’ Dad stares at Henry and says: ‘It doesn’t take a genius to see how happy you are with each other.’

I smile, my other hand blindly searching Henry’s.

‘I also don’t need to tell you, but you need to take good care of her.’

Henry nods. ‘Don’t you worry, sir, I take good care of her.’

My dad looks up at the ceiling, tears in his eyes.

‘Dad, please,’ I say, ‘it’s all okay. We spoke about this yesterday: I don’t blame you. Not at all, not in the slightest.’

He has never been the talkative type, I know that. It pains me to see how crushed he is, how much he is beating himself up. I understand that he feels like that, however I am not mad. After yesterday’s talk I understood and realized I never wanted to be mad at him at all.

‘I don’t know if you can make it and if you even want to, but you—and you alone—can come to the wedding if you want. It’s a little short notice, I know, but Henry and I would love it if you were there.’

Dad simply nods. ‘I would love that too,’ he says in a hoarse tone. ‘Just… You have to help me with something first.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Help me arrange a divorce.’

Don’t overreact, Becky. The rush of utter euphoria fills my body. He wants to divorce my mom? After all those years? Is there an opportunity I could still have that relationship with my dad I have always secretly wanted and wished for.

I look over my shoulder to Henry, who seems to read my eyes. ‘I can arrange something with my lawyer,’ Henry says, squeezing my fingers. ‘You know what, I’ll call him right now. Maybe we can arrange something very soon.’

Henry leaves the room, holding his phone in his hand and my dad nods. ‘You have a nice fiancé,’ he says. ‘Takes good care of you.’

I smile. ‘Yeah, he does. He is the love of my life.’

Dad tilts his head. ‘You sure you want me there?’

‘Yes, I’d love to. We have an entire month to get to know each other and that of course won’t change after the wedding. We could look for an apartment for you, make sure you can start a new life.’

‘It’s a father’s job to protect and take care of his kids, not the other way around.’ He sighs deeply and says: ‘I have never taken care of you. Protected you from those vile words spilled from your mom and siblings.’

‘But you will,’ I say. ‘Please, it’s all good. Know and accept that, okay? I want to work on our relationship and that can start with an apartment when you are released from this awful place.’

For the first time he widely smiles. ‘I’m a lucky man for having a daughter like you.’

Henry enters the room again and says: ‘Well, I spoke to my lawyer and he is ready to meet you in a few days. There is a possibility he can expedite the process.’

Dad nods again. ‘Thank you, Henry. Now please sit, so I can get to know you.’

✤ ✤ ✤

When Henry and I are back in the car after hours of getting to know my father, tears finally drip over my tears. ‘Baby girl,’ he says, ‘it’s okay. You did amazing.’

‘I just don’t know why I’m crying, especially because I’m happy. I’m happy with all of this, however it’s just that… I wish there was more I could do.’

‘You are doing all you can,’ he says. ‘And your dad knows that.’

I hide my face in my hands and I feel Henry’s hand in the back of my neck. He presses a kiss on the top of my head.

‘I love you, baby girl and we’ll get through this.’

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fandom #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x oc #henry cavill x asian ofc #henry cavill x becky kim #sugar daddy!henry cavill #sugar sugar #becky kim #asian ofc

[tennessoui]

i really am just so excited for part two of the roadtrip au and knowing it might be from obi-wan's perspective??? seeing obi-wan fawn over anakin while anakin dotes on him?? i'm losing my mind.

hey!!! bless!!!! i know i said it would be part 1, part 2, part 3, but i started writing part 2 and it's like already 2.2k long and they're just in Pennsylvania so i think we should all start thinking of this story as part 1 (finished, posted), ARC 2 (very long, is in segments, depending on what people wanna see and what road trip shenanigans i can think up), and part 3 (tbd)

anyway here's the 2.2k (squick: a/b/o, mpreg)

“Uh, sir? Are you...alright?”

That’s the gas station attendant. Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to thunk his head on the side of the bathroom stall. The only thing stopping him is how absolutely unsanitary it would be, and he already feels dirty enough. He pulls a few more squares of toilet paper from the dispenser and wipes at his mouth.

Of all the pregnancy symptoms he hates, he thinks morning sickness is the one he hates the most. And it’s the one that seems to be, for some reason, sticking around the longest.

He’d never even known how much of a misnomer morning sickness is, but it’s not like it’s only happening in the morning. He’ll feel nauseous halfway through the day, mid-afternoon, early evening.

His doctor and close friend at the hospital, Bant, had assured him this was normal and nothing to worry about. But it’s hard not to worry about it, especially when he lives with an Alpha who worries about everything.

“Just fine, thank you,” Obi-Wan says politely as he flushes the toilet and leaves before he can watch his breakfast spiral down and disappear. That’ll only make him feel even more sick.

The girl wrings her hands as she watches him wash his, and he has to take pity on her. She can’t be older than eighteen. “Morning sickness,” he tells her, placing a hand on the virtually unnoticeable swell of his belly.

“Oh!” she says. Obi-Wan fights the urge to grimace when he sees her eyes dart down to his unmarked neck. He knows how it looks. He knows how it sounds. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s quite alright,” he says. It’s not, but it is. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to talk to this girl anymore. They’re passing through a small town in central Pennsylvania. He’s a pregnant, unmated, thirty-eight year old male omega. A rarity. A talking point. He doesn’t want to talk to her, he wants--

There’s a loud knock on the door to the bathroom. “Obi-Wan? Are you alright? Is there someone in there with you? I thought I heard voices. Obi-Wan? I’m coming in, Obi-Wan.”

Anakin.

Obi-Wan gets halfway through drying his hands before Anakin’s there, crowding him against the sink and nosing at his face and neck.

“Sir, this is a bathroom for omegas only!” the gas station attendant protests, but Anakin growls at her.

As much as the pregnancy has made Obi-Wan lose parts of himself to his Omegan side, it’s been ten times worse for Anakin for some reason. As far as Alphas go, Anakin’s always been a thoughtful, respectful one. Quick to anger, perhaps, but never violent or suspicious.

Now it’s like everyone in the world has done something to personally offend Anakin. Everyone but Obi-Wan.

If he didn’t feel such a burning, unignorable need to get to Seattle, Obi-Wan would have called the whole trip off weeks ago.

But he couldn’t then and he definitely can’t now, not when they’ve both taken the time off of work and Obi-Wan’s let his doctor know he’ll be out of the state and they’re already in Pennsylvania.

He’ll just let Anakin do whatever he needs to do to feel alright with taking a pregnant, unmated omega across the country. It’s not as if it’s a hardship to put up with all the scentings and hugs and looming and protectiveness.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Which just makes Obi-Wan feel even more guilty, the way he’s using Anakin like this. His dearest, closest friend, who is helping him in such an amazing way, and every time he touches him, it’s all Obi-Wan can do to not arch up into the touch.

He wishes he could blame it on the pregnancy hormones, the way his instincts are going haywire to keep an alpha--any alpha--close. But it’s not. It’s Anakin. It’s the fact that Obi-Wan is hopelessly, irreversibly in love with the alpha.

The touches and the scenting don’t mean what he wants them to. It doesn’t mean anything, the way Anakin pushes his shirts and sweaters to Obi-Wan’s chest and watches him put them on. He’s an observant man, his alpha. He knows Obi-Wan likes wearing his scent now that he’s pregnant. It’s comforting.

So even though it doesn’t mean anything at all, the way Anakin’s hands roam over his waist and stomach and hips as he growls at the poor gas station attendant, Obi-Wan has to fight to not push back into the touches, to not scent him in return.

He’s afraid once he does, he won’t be able to stop. The thought of it, of marking the beautiful, strong, virile alpha with his smell, is too addicting to ever risk trying.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just a bit of morning sickness,” he says lightly, touching Anakin’s chest gently. “She was just checking up on me.”

Anakin glares at the girl and starts to herd Obi-Wan out of the bathroom. “Not hers to check up on,” he mutters, hands latching onto Anakin’s hips and guiding him through the aisles of brightly colored chips and candy.

Obi-Wan thinks that for both of their sakes he should remind Anakin that he’s not his to check up on either, but he doesn’t want to, not when he can pretend for a little bit longer.

“I think I would like to lie down in the back for a bit,” he says, holding his stomach. “Just until we get out of this state.”

Anakin agrees immediately, like he knew he would. “Okay, Obi,” he murmurs, opening the car door for him. They’d laid down their suitcases in the wells behind the two front seats, and Anakin had thrown a couple of blankets over the entire area to make a sort of makeshift nest for Obi-Wan to sleep in should he want to.

They’ve only been driving for four hours, but Obi-Wan already wants to. He’s painfully on edge.

He hadn’t understood how hard it would be to convince his hindbrain and body to leave the safety of their apartment, but all he wants now is to nest somewhere safe for him and the baby. It would have been impossible to do this without Anakin.

“Alright,” the alpha says. “Um. Wait. Here.”

He shucks off his sweatshirt, a faded college one that Obi-Wan’s been coveting with his eyes since Anakin had put it on this morning. “Oh, dear one, no,” he forces himself to say anyway. “It’s December. You need a sweatshirt.”

“I’ll turn up the heat,” Anakin holds it out insistently, stubbornly. “Take it, come on.”

Obi-wan can only make himself hesitate for a second more before he’s snatching the soft fabric that smells like sunlight linen honeydew out of his hands and holding it greedily to his chest. “Alright.”

Under the weight of the alpha’s watchful eyes, Obi-Wan crawls into the backseat and curls up with his head diagonal from the driver’s seat. He thinks it’ll be nice to wake up and see Anakin’s profile whenever he wants to without additional shifting.

“Oh shit,” Anakin curses suddenly. “I was going to buy a coffee.” The alpha pauses, clearly torn between going back inside and not wanting to leave the omega alone in the car. But Obi-Wan knows Anakin, and he needs his coffee.

“Oh,” he says as if he’s just remembering something himself, “can you get me one of those bananas on the counter? I think they’re good for babies.”

That, obviously, changes everything for Anakin who straightens instantly. “Bananas are good for babies,” he declares, nodding his head before narrowing his eyes. “Would you...can I lock the door? I won’t be long. Just for safety.”

Obi-Wan blinks and purses his lips to stop his little smile. His alpha can be so silly. Safety. In the middle of the afternoon in rural Pennsylvania. “Okay, alpha,” he agrees before he even realizes that he really shouldn’t be calling Anakin alpha. Especially not when the other man always reacts so strongly to it.

Case in point, he thinks to himself sadly as Anakin’s hand spasms on the car door handle before he slams it and hustles away, almost at a run.

With a long sigh, he flops back down into his nest and squirms until he gets comfortable. There’s a pillow close to his hand that he hugs to his chest when he realizes it’s Anakin’s pillow from his bed at home. It smells amazing, a mix of both of them together.

Ever since he’d told the alpha he was pregnant, Obi-Wan’s fallen asleep in Anakin’s bed more often than not. It’s a comfort thing, one that Obi-Wan feels intensely guilty about. Surely if he keeps being so clingy and whiny and Omegan, Anakin will get sick of him.

And this is just the beginning of the pregnancy. He knows rationally that Anakin loves him as a friend, a brother, but how long is that love going to last if Obi-Wan can’t get a handle on his goddamn hormones? Anakin hadn’t signed up for any of this. It’s not even his pup. How much is Obi-Wan willing to put him through just because he can’t imagine a life without the alpha in it?

Wouldn’t it be the best thing for the both of them to cut their losses now? Bail and Breha had told Obi-Wan he could move in with them for the duration of the pregnancy if he needed to. The only thing that stopped him from saying yes immediately had been the hope that Anakin would be willing to stay with him, keep living with him even after he’d fucked up so much.

And the alpha, by some miracle, hadn’t left, hadn’t moved out. But Obi-Wan can’t shake the thought that he will soon, that this will all get to be too much. Obi-Wan’s omega whimpers at the back of his mind at the idea that one day the alpha will be gone.

The scent of distressed omega fills the car as Obi-Wan feels his bottom lip start to wobble.

Alright, the influx of hormones that are wreaking havoc on his emotions is probably the pregnancy symptom he hates the most. But morning sickness is still up there, too.

He sniffs into Anakin’s college sweatshirt and tries to think happy thoughts. He shouldn’t make Anakin worry about his emotions when he’s already spending so much time worried about his physical health.

How much is Obi-Wan going to take advantage of Anakin’s kindness?

The doors unlock with a beep, signaling his alpha’s return to the car.

It doesn’t take Anakin even a second to catch onto Obi-Wan’s recent spiral of emotion, but at least he won’t know why unless Obi-Wan tells him.

“Obi?” he asks frantically, as soon as he opens the car door. “Obi, are you alright? Did something happen? Did someone see you--?”

“Put the coffee down before you spill it,” Obi-Wan instructs after peeking out of his sweatshirt haven. “I’m alright, Anakin. It’s just the hormones. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Anakin shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

The statement pulls a wry smile from Obi-Wan. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” he murmurs, touching his belly with a pointed, gentle hand. Before Anakin can say anything about that, he continues quickly. “I was just wondering about something, I’m fine, really. Really.”

And then, knowing he shouldn’t but also knowing it’ll distract Anakin enough from this line of questioning, he tilts his head back to expose his neck and says, “Can we drive, alpha?”

The coffee cup still clutched in Anakin’s hands bursts open under the force of his grip. He really should have put it down.

Anakin curses up a storm as he shakes the hot liquid off of his skin, and Obi-Wan sits up worriedly. Anakin was bothered so much by Obi-Wan calling him that that he accidentally hurt himself. No more, the omega resolves. He can take a hint.

“Are you alright?” he asks, grabbing at Anakin’s hand to examine the red skin.

“I’m fine!” Anakin yelps, jumping away. “I just--I’m just going to go wash this off. Um. And get more coffee.”

He slams the door shut, and Obi-Wan wilts as he watches him go. He can’t even follow after him because Anakin’s locked the doors with his car key. He’s done enough already.

“Oh baby,” he tells his stomach. “I don’t think I’m ever going to have that alpha figured out.”

The baby is still and, of course, silent, but Obi-Wan takes comfort in their presence anyway. They can’t leave him. Not yet, at least.

Gingerly, he maneuvers his way out of his nest so he can reach his messenger bag he’d left in the foot of his passenger seat. It takes some finangling, but finally he’s able to fish out his headphones. As he resettles into his nest, surrounded on all sides by Anakin’s scent, he notices the bunch of bananas thrown in the driver’s seat.

Obi-Wan snorts at his silly alpha, but can’t deny that he’s touched at the same time.

It’s extremely easy to find the track he wants to listen to, what with how often he listens to it these days. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that can get him to fall asleep.

He pulls up the downloaded homemade album Anakin had given him for Christmas four years back. When he presses play, his alpha’s deep melodic voice spills into his ears.

“Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote…”

Of course he can’t be sure, but he’s fairly certain he’s asleep by the time Anakin comes back to the car.

#asks #squick tag: a/b/o #squick tag: mpreg #prompt fill #roadtrip au #oh?? its somehow MORE angsty now that obi-wan's POV is being explored??? #is ANYONE surprised??? lmao #(no) #also yes at the end obi-wan is listening to anakin recite the general prologue of the canterbury tales with the original english #that anakin learned how to pronounce correctly so he could make obi-wan the best christmas present ever #was it going to be a love confession too but he chickened out at the last second??? yah #will anakin get jealous obi-wan's always lsitening to something on his phone and demand to know what it is??? yah #poor dumb men

[dennou-translations]

Violet Evergarden: Booklet 2

Please feel free to message me about possible corrections. If you can, consider supporting the creators by purchasing the official releases. In case anyone is feeling generous, please consider donating to my Ko-fi or PayPal. ( ╹◡╹)っ’･*

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I wanted that star. I wanted to be the person who would piece through that star.

   Leon Stephanotis and the First Star

   I had once seen a comet that only came around every two hundred years together with a girl.

It had happened years ago. That was one beautiful evening. Even now, I can still vividly recall the twinkling of the stars we watched on that day while our bodies shivered at the coldness of the nightly wind. Like jewels scattered over a dark canopy, the starry sky was enough to make one forget to even breathe. As it passed by, dragging its white tail, the meteor looked just like a fairy in flight with insect scales scattering about from her wings.

Whenever I looked at a beautiful night sky, I would think many times over, “Aah, now that I’ve branded this moment into my heart, I’d have no regrets if someone reaped my life away”. Should I lose my life, I wanted it to be on a starry night like that. I wanted to die with the memory of witnessing something stunning.

“May the night sky be a beautiful starry one on the day I die,” I wished.

But that one evening was a little bit different. Maybe because I had someone to watch the stars with me. Maybe because that was my first love.

She was a gorgeous person. Even more than the stars. Her hair looked like the Sun when shining under the moonlight and her blue eyes were like gemstones created from a mix of the sea and the sky. With her porcelain skin and skylark voice, the way she walked was just as that of a well-cared maiden. In reality, she was an orphaned ex-soldier, as well as an Auto-Memories Doll from a far-away southern country, so the saying “don’t judge a book by its cover” was pertinent when it came to her.

She was most likely an once-in-a-lifetime kind of person, one that you couldn’t know if you would ever get to meet.

My chest throbbed even at the sigh that leaked from her when she was peeking at the telescope. When she looked my way and smiled faintly, I experienced an impact as if I had been hit in the head, giving in to a love that made me feel like my whole body would melt and crumble down.

“Master, astronomical observations are quite a wonderful thing.”

If, by any chance, my body were to be crushed by a star in that moment, only on that day did I want to keep looking at something, even if for just one second more. I wanted to keep looking at her. Forever and ever, I wished. That was what I thought.

This encounter had changed my life and decided my fate. I didn’t mind if people laughed at that, calling me a romanticist. I, Leon Stephanotis, whose destiny had been altered, would always look back on it.

On the day that I had watched the stars with Violet Evergarden.

   “There was a sea of gold in his land” – who was it again that had sung the praises of a desert like this?

“I’m beat.”

When bookworms read too much, their head’s capacity would exceed the limit, so they would automatically forget the things they had read in their early phases. I had confidence in my memorization abilities and yet I couldn’t remember this, so it was surely a passage from an adventure novel or something of the sort that I had read in my childhood.

——What a beautiful comparison.

When I actually stood in the middle of a desert, my impressions were drawn to the temperatures, sunlight and other such things regarding the environment instead, so this poetic expression hadn’t crossed my mind. In the destinations of my travels, I often reminisced to a certain someone who was somewhere in this world, as well as the things she, who spoke words as beautiful as that, used to say, as if borrowing them.

“So pretty...”

I liked the color of gold. I could observe the grains of sand moving smoothly for all eternity.

“Everyone, you did well; the books we excavated will be brought back by another group. Meaning that we from the starting line-up are finally off for the first time in months.”

As I was spacing out, I didn’t hear the commander’s words very well. I was only staring at the ground, missing out on everything. When I raised my head, the happy-looking faces of my bearded and somewhat dirty colleagues entered my eyes. All I understood right away was that we would get a vacation.

“After we get twenty days off, we’ll regroup in Iustitia, at Shaher’s headquarters. After that, we’ll go to that place in the south where the reconnaissance team was sent. Next will be our turn to bring back the luggage. Don’t let your bodies get weak.”

“Roger that.” Once everybody gave an agreeable reply in unison, we disbanded from the spot.

Iustitia, Shaher’s headquarters. The main office of my occupation. I was previously in a section called the codex department, devotedly working on the deciphering of documents and copying manuscripts, but now I had been transferred to a completely different section. It sounded good when we were called the leading actors, but it was actually a group of reeking adventure rascals, the literature collecting department.

I put my heavy baggage sack on the ground and heaved a breath. Wiping the white folk clothes that I had been provided with on-site, I dusted the sand off them. This clothing called dola – a long robe secured by a waist belt – looked flappy and inflexible at first glance, but it was surprisingly easy to move around in. It was made of a rather velvety silk material, so there would normally not be so much sand sticking to it, but since I was caught in a sandstorm until just a moment ago, there was no helping it.

We had returned from a thorough search in the ruins of an abandoned castle, once the dominion of a royal clan whose name was eminent in the past. A book burning movement had taken place in this land at a certain point, but we had received information that a scholar from those times, out of fear towards the situation, had hidden valuable books in the forsaken palace. The information was apparently right, so after wandering around all over the deserted castle, we had found dozens of books. The books that would be taken to Shaher’s headquarters were to be made into written copies and spread to the world.

Made for protection purposes, Shaher’s literature collection was also well-reputed in other countries. It was difficult to negotiate with the locals responsible for the abandoned castle, but we were allowed entrance this time as well thanks to our achievements thus far. Just like that, someone’s story, studies and feelings, which were supposed to have disappeared, would breathe once again. The books we had been looking for would be delivered to other people and comfort them during long nights.

——What a wonderful thing.

The working environment was awful, but I was proud of my job.

I sat down on my luggage and gazed at the cityscape while drinking water from my canteen. In this desert-zone city, everyone’s clothes seemed harmonized no matter what color they wore.

“Senior Leon, what will you do on your days off?”

As a junior who had not yet left the spot called to me, I furrowed my brows and looked at his face. He was a young man of masculine facial traits, which was enviable to someone as baby-faced as me.

“Hey, Sir.”

A rarity amongst the members of our unit, the man had not been born in Iustitia. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was a rich kid who had been born in a southern country and entered Shaher through connections with the foundation executives.

Getting a job at the Shaher Observatory was a daunting task even for those who had studied astronomy. It was hard to make it without learning in a good environment from an early age. Since Iustitia, the capital of stargazing, was the best place to study in, it was natural that the ones hired were mostly the locals.

——Well, this guy had connections, so this has nothing to do with him.

I pondered an answer. “Nothing in particular.” For the time being, I decided to be cold, acting as nonchalant as ever.

And this was also the same as always, but the junior took no offense in my crude response – rather, he laughed at me, looking happy. “Then that means you’ve got no plans. I was thinking of going home. If you’d like, how about we go together? We have a villa by the lake... If I go now, the schedule will allow my family to join in.”

“No, why do I—”

“Last time we had a break, I told my little sisters about your cool adventure story and they wouldn’t shut up about how much they wanted to meet you. Hey, hey, how about it?”

I was baffled. I had no idea what was good about me to this junior but he would oddly flock to me. The reason why I hadn’t told him about my plans right away was that I felt he would follow me if I did so. Honestly, he was a bother. Up to now, we had acted as a group. I wanted to be alone even if a second sooner.

“I’m not going.”

“No way... My family’s all pretty boys and girls! Sir, you like beautiful things, don’t you?”

“Do they look like you?”

“They do.”

“Then they might be pretty, but won’t be my type.”

“Sir! You’re horrible!”

“So loud. If your family’s waiting for you, hurry and go.”

While I gestured with my hand as if shooing a dog, the junior made a puppy-like sad face. Even though he had a big body, he was amicable and his display of emotions was richer than most people, making him look all the more like a dog.

“Then, if you ever feel like coming to see me during your break...”

“I won’t.”

“...could you contact a hotel called Varona in Leidenschaftlich?”

“I won... uh?”

“It’s a first-class accommodation establishment. It’s under my uncle’s administration, so you can get a stay there immediately, and I can pick you up as soon as you give me my name. Oh, you’re making an interested face, huh? Want to come with me right now?”

What piqued my interest was the word “Leidenschaftlich” – that was all.

——That’s where the CH Postal Company is.

And it was also where my first love worked at.

“You were from Leidenschaftlich...?”

“That’s right. I did say it in my self-introduction when I joined the department.”

“Well, I don’t listen to people I have no interest in...”

As expected, my junior gave a happy-looking smile with his whole face. “Sir, I like that you’re equally unfriendly to everyone. People only got close to me because of my title... and my family’s social standing... but Sir, you’re cold, and that feels nice.”

“Your suffocating actions are a pain in the ass to me. Besides, hum...”

“What is it, Sir?”

“Hum, say... is the CH Postal Company well-known?”

“Do you know Violet Evergarden?” – the reason why I couldn’t ask this was a literal embodiment of how much I lacked guts, I thought.

With an “aah”, my junior immediately made a face like the name rang a bell. “I know them. It’s the company of that businessman, Claudia Hodgins, right? They’re popular. Shocking that the name of a company would come from you.”

“I’m an adult, after all. I’d know the name of one or two renowned businesses at least.”

“That’s a lie, ain’t it? I already know you don’t have interest in anything but stars. Erm... if I’m not wrong, all the postal companies of Leiden got sucked into it. They also succeeded in company split-ups. Their president is a celebrity too. The newspaper series where he talks to other entrepreneurs is a trend... It got adapted into a book just recently. There’s a chapter in the extra edition where he talks to his secretary and the president of an affiliated company, and it’s so fun. The book’s in my room at the headquarters, so you can take it with you and read it all you want.”

“Is there nothing about business in that book? Like, about the Auto-Memories Doll field... Hum, according to my research, there should be a rather famous Auto-Memories Doll in it... Don’t know if she’s still there, though.”

I timidly attempted to ask, yet it seemed my junior didn’t know the details. That was expected. The number of people who could hire Auto-Memories Dolls was limited, so hardly anybody would know even the name of a famed Doll unless it was someone marginally acquainted with them.

“I wonder. I do sorta know that they apparently have one real beauty of a Doll. But I also have a good-looking face... so I don’t yield to beauties from here and there.”

“Got it. Thanks for the info. And for the nice conversation. Go home.”

“Sir...! If you get bored of being alone, please remember me!”

Leaving behind my clingy junior, I took off from that place. I strutted with a hand in my pocket.

My junior wasn’t a bad guy. He had a high-handed personality but fit into the category of good person. He must have talked to me like that because he knew about my background as an orphan who had lost his parents and got a job at the astronomical observatory by way of assistance from Shaher. Meaning he was worried about his senior, who would be spending his vacation alone with no lover or family. The reason why he had invited me to a house where his family would be was probably that he was exposing his intentions in his own way.

——But to hell with that.

I wanted to be alone. To say that the people who thought I was pitiful were the actual pitiful ones was my essence. I had always enjoyed watching the stars by myself anyway, and I enjoyed books about stars too. Book reading wasn’t meant to be done with two people, right? I liked being alone. This was also because I had lived a life of accepting solitude for a long time, but if anything, it was harder for me to settle down when I was in someone’s company.

When I turned the street corner and confirmed that he finally wasn’t following me anymore, I let out a relieved sigh.

——Alone at last. Time and space just for me.

The times when I was by myself like this were the ones I felt most comfortable in, and while I did have some things to reflect upon in that regard, unfortunately, I didn’t have a family to pester me about having children, unlike the rest of society. Because I was alone.

——I get that it isn’t a good thing.

There were things that you couldn’t get used to or change, despite understanding why you should. I was equal parts as obstinate as I felt inferior to those who had families. Only one person had ever made me want to be with her for a little longer when I was in her company.

——Only one.

Our circumstances were similar and we were also alike in that we were burdened with loneliness, but it wasn’t as if I liked her because of the similarity. It was because she seemed like she would be all right even if she were on her own, so I had wished to stay by her side. To get close to her. I “liked” her in that way. It wasn’t as if I wanted her to do something for me. I was the one who wanted to do something for her. It was that kind of “like”.

It had happened a long time ago.

After we had spent a little time together, she left. When we were bidding our farewells, I stopped her and confessed.

“Violet.”

I told her I was in love with her. I didn’t ask her, “I like you, so what do you wanna do?” – I simply told her I liked her.

“I’m... I’m... in the codex department now, but... I actually wanted to be in the literature collecting department like my father.”

She gave me this answer: the way that she cherished me was different.

“I had my hopes up that maybe my mother would come home one day if I waited here, bringing my father back with her... so I kept shutting myself in until this age, without ever stepping off into the outside world. That was possible in this place and I wanted it myself. But... just now...”

But if we ever happened to meet again, she wanted to spend time with me.

“I’ve just made up my mind. I’ll go around the world like you.”

In that moment, the woman who had said that she couldn’t feel emotions...

“I might face danger. I might lose my life without anyone ever finding my body, just like my parents. But—But that’s okay. I’m thinking of choosing that path.��

...smiled at me like a normal girl, looking happy, and told me something.

“If I do that, I’m sure we might get to meet someday, somewhere, under a starry sky. We’re both gypsies. And if that happens, will you...”

——...watch the stars with me again?

“Yes, Master.”

She told me that. She said it. This alone was already enough for me. This alone gave me the courage to come out of the world that I had been secluding myself in. Even if my love wasn’t requited, even if we never saw each other again, I was so happy.

She.

Violet.

Violet Evergarden.

Just that – just the fact that she had promised to watch the stars with me – had made me happy to the point of changing my life.

I kept making transfer requests ever since that day, finally earned approval and ventured myself into the outside world. The world other than Iustitia that I saw for the first time was bustling with a dizzying variety of things, which made me regret secluding myself. But surely, if I hadn’t met her, I would have taken a lot longer to go outside. No, I might have never left that bird cage to begin with.

That environment where I was allowed to wallow was terribly indulgent. After all, everyone was awfully nice to me for not being able to stand up, just because I was sad.

I didn’t simply think that I would definitely get to see her at least once. The probability of an astronomer and an Auto-Memories Doll, who had spent time together at work, meeting even once was surely the same as the meteor we had seen that day – once every two hundred years.

I was being ridiculous. If I really wanted to see her, I should just go visit her postal company in Leiden. The reason why I didn’t do it was that I was scared. That maybe her words were just out of friendliness, and that, if we did meet, she wouldn’t even remember me and I would be rejected. On top of being terrified of this, I also had a dream.

That if we ever happened to reunite, I wanted us to meet again truly by coincidence, under a starry sky.

If something like that really were to happen, just what would I do? Would I smile? Cry? Or ask for her love again?

I nodded at a passerby who had almost collided with me and started walking again. I had no particular destination. I could also go back to the headquarters just like this and be an idle bookworm in my own room, but going sightseeing around this city for at least a little bit was also good.

——I won’t get to see Violet if I stay in that place.

I had no free time to spend money, so I could afford the luxury of staying at a remotely nice hotel. Having made up my mind, I went into the main street and began looking for accommodation in the desert capital.

   Local idioms were honestly my weak point. Even though it was a common language, it was hard to catch because of the many dialects. When I talked to elders, I was done for.

However, I could perfectly understand that the inn’s owner, an old gentleman, had treated me like a “young lady”. Of course, I told him he was mistaken, but he didn’t hear it. He led me to my room with a hand around my hips.

The room was quite a high-class one, so I let it slide. If it were my old self, I would have been as furious as a raging fire. But I had grown up. By holding back my anger, I would manage to spend the night in a proper bed, where it didn’t seem like bugs would show up, so becoming an adult was for the best. Even if my self-respect decreased a little.

While I was chilling in the room and writing my diary, the sun went down in a blink of eye and it was getting late into the evening.

   “Heave-ho.”

It was the dead of night. I put on warm clothes and prepared myself to go out.

I wanted to observe the desert’s starry sky at my own leisure. As our activities had been limited to daytime ever since we had arrived here, I was now finally getting to do the things that I actually felt like doing. I had watched it together with everyone else from the windows of the cheap inn that the literature collecting department’s personnel had stayed at, but as expected, I wanted to see it from a spacious place with no noise or anything of the sort. As a scholar born in the so-called “capital of stargazing”, I obviously was going to have my fill of the desert’s night sky.

Unable to contain my feelings of excitement, I left the room after my lips relaxed a bit. For the heck of it, I greeted the innkeeper and told him I was going to see the stars. When I did so, he made a worried-looking face.

Apparently, women were forbidden of wandering outside at night in these lands. He couldn’t stop me from going out since I wasn’t a local, but warned me not to get too close to men. It wasn’t as if there were many ruffians among the people who walked around at night, but simply that this city had this kind of culture, so if the men suddenly spotted a woman, they might think badly of it. I had grown up in a men’s dormitory watching a bunch of idiots, so I understood what he was trying to say.

I showed him the retractable cane I was holding, and while I was at it, I also demonstrated with one swing that a blade came out from the tip as well. It was not for killing anyone, but it sufficed for making the other party recoil and holding them back.

Receiving the innkeeper’s applause from behind, I ventured myself outside.

The temperature gaps between nighttime and daytime was extreme in the desert. Having been raised in a mountaintop astronomical observatory, I was used to areas where there was a discrepancy in temperatures between day and night, but even then, I could bring myself to deem it as comfortable due to differences in humidity. The instant I stepped outside, I shuddered with a “brr”.

However, I forgot the cold as soon as I saw the sight spreading overhead. Surely, God must have dropped His jewel box. The starry sky unfolded in a way that made even someone like me come up with such a poetic saying.

Due to the fact that it was nighttime, there were few people out, but it wasn’t as if nobody was wandering about the city. Just as the innkeeper had said, it seemed that someone with a womanly appearance (I wasn’t a woman at all, though) walking around did catch people’s eyes, as they called to me countless times. I put myself on guard in each of those instances, and everyone withdrew with the same caution as the innkeeper.

Not letting the women walk around late at night was also meant for protecting them.

I had heard that there was a place for stargazing aimed at tourists somewhere a little far from the city, so I headed there, for safety as well. Several tents were erected around the sparse green area. In addition to privately built tents, there were also merchant tents selling drinks and food.

After looking through the signboards with the prices of the alcohol and warm soups that people of this region consumed and were familiar with, I picked the alcohol. I was an adult now and on vacation, so I told myself that it was okay to drink today and gave myself permission.

I went for a cloudy-colored alcoholic drink simmered in a large pot called the witch’s cauldron. It was warm and sweet, with a slightly spicy aftertaste. It warmed your body when you drank it and was the best delicacy to savor in cold weather.

Some people invited me to enter their tents, but I refused and steadily began setting up by arranging the astronomical observation tools that I had prepared. I assembled a demountable astronomical telescope over the sheets.

Even though this was said to be a place for stargazing, not everyone seemed to be astronomy freaks like in Iustitia – most of them were lying on the ground, enjoying a conversation with their companions while relishing in the jewels of the night. Everyone other than myself had simple handheld telescopes, so a few locals started appearing fussily around me, looking greatly interested. If anything, there weren’t just tourists.

A young father who had a child with him shyly came to ask me, “How much is it for you to let us take a look?” Apparently, he had mistaken me for a merchant.

“I don’t take money for it. It’s something for me to enjoy myself.”

The young parent made a bewildered face at my blunt reply, but nervously stepped in front of the kid and said, “It’s okay even if it’s just for a little bit, couldn’t you let this child take a peek?”

“Sure, it’s fine.”

He was also surprised at my ready consent. As he asked one more time if I really wasn’t going to charge for it, I declared that I wasn’t, swearing by this land’s god.

I beckoned the child. Our heights didn’t match since he was too small, so I lifted him by the hips.

“Can you see them?”

“Just a tad higher.”

“This much?”

“Amaziiing.”

At the child’s delighted look, the father and I locked eyes with each other and laughed. Then, other people who had been surrounding us at a distance came over one after another, asking me to let them see next. Whenever I said that I wasn’t charging any fee, they would ask me back, “Are you a saint or what?”.

In a land where you could see such beautiful stars, astronomical telescopes weren’t wild-spread among locals, enjoyed only by tourists and outsiders. That was probably the case. For them, this was an expensive item brought by outsiders. The stars were beautiful enough at naked eye, so if I had to say it, telescopes weren’t necessary. But if there was something that would help them see better, there would obviously be people saying that they want to take a look.

——Guess I’m gonna contact Shaher’s donors and indicate this place as a potential donation site.

If this pleased so many people, maybe it would be nice to have a telescope that everyone could look into, just as there were benches where everyone could sit on along the streets. I liked stars, so it made me happy even if just one more person fell in love with them.

“Having fun?”

“We are! You’re so generous!”

The figure of an elderly man much older than myself smiling like a boy, looking extremely happy, struck home pretty hard. It wasn’t like I wanted to hang out with anyone or that I had a preference for getting along with everybody. That wasn’t the case at all.

“This thing’s pricey, ain’t it? You okay with people touchin’ it without a care?”

“It’s not made for decoration; it’s something to look at.”

But these kinds of moments were nice.

——Very nice.

If these once-in-a-lifetime encounters would increase the proportion of stargazing in someone’s life, nothing could make me happier.

——When I get old, I guess I’m gonna run a rent-a-telescope or something like that somewhere.

I decided to take a few steps back and let everyone enjoy themselves.

This sensation that the joy of the surroundings was becoming more and more contagious. This feeling that people were gathering there only out of curiosity and adventurous spirit, not for profit. It didn’t seem fitting of my usual self, but something like this was also conceivable every once in a while.

With nothing to do, I naturally started looking around. Wonderful night, wonderful atmosphere.

The figure of someone standing still amongst it all entered my field of vision even without me wanting to. Everyone else had a companion.

The person was clad in dola like me and had a veil covering her face. From her physique, I could somehow presume that she was probably a woman.

Hoping that no weirdos would go talk to her, I worried about and kept watch over the woman, just like people had done for me. If she got caught up by anybody, should I intervene?

I used to hate women, yet here I was, concerning myself with one. I might have a misconstrued sense of justice, but I at least had to care.

I was just looking at her for a little while simply for that reason, but the instant that the wind blew strongly, all of my nerves became her captive. Her veil came off. It came off just slightly and I could see her face.

Her golden hair fluttered leniently. Her shapely profile was exposed under the starry sky. This beauty that could be discerned even in the nightly darkness was breathtaking.

It was really just a few seconds’ time and she immediately fixed the veil back on tight, but I had already seen her, so I knew. I knew.

I knew who that was.

Distancing myself from the telescope, I walked unsteadily towards her. Like winged bugs that gathered up to light.

This person literally shone like a lantern in my life. It was fire that wouldn’t disappear, no matter how much time passed. Time only strengthened the flame’s vigor.

That was why, aah, I... I...

“Violet Evergarden... is that you?”

That was why I called to her at that moment, with a shrill voice. As she looked at me, her eyes slowly crinkled, the corners of her lips went up and she smiled at me.

I felt like tearing up at that.

“It has been a while, Master.”

I had dreamed of this.

“Is it really you?”

I had dreamed of this day.

“Yes, Master.”

Always had been.

“Stupid, I’m not your master anymore... I have a name too... You’ve probably forgotten about it, but I... My name is...”

I had dreamed of this day and had always been thinking about what to say if we ever got to meet again.

“Mr. Leon Stephanotis. Is ‘Mr. Leon’ all right?”

If it were under a starry sky with not a single cloud, we could talk about its bare beauty. If it were on a rainy day, we could discuss the mythology related to the constellations.

“Did I mistake it? I have confidence in my memorization skills, but...”

If it were on a night where a once-in-every-two-centuries meteor were to pass by, we could share stories of the past in which we had observed the sky together.

“No... you got it right. You got it... Just ‘Leon’ is fine... Violet, the time you spent with me was so long ago, and yet, you sure... managed to...”

I had dreamed of this. You had no idea, did you, Violet Evergarden?

“You sure managed to remember.”

You were my first love. The first person I fell for. That day was the first time I confessed to someone.

“Leon, do you recall the promise we made?”

I opened the door to courage. I opened it thinking it would be okay even if I got hurt. But instead of hurting me, you accepted it. You broke my love to pieces, but still acknowledged it.

“Yeah.”

I had dreamed of this. Of this moment. You didn’t have to remember it. You could have forgotten what you had said to me. But if nothing else, I wanted to have one more look at you before I died.

“Have you memorized...”

One more time.

“...the names of a few stars?”

I wanted to see you one more time.

Violet Evergarden. I – the sixteen-year-old Leon Stephanotis – was in love with you.

He was in love with you. So was my current self. Now that you were in front of me, I could tell as much, even if I didn’t want to.

The flame inside my chest was saying, “This woman is the one who started the fire.” It told me that you were the woman who burned me up. You had burned me, and you still were. You melted everything that I had locked up within ice. It told me that you were the woman of my fate.

Violet wordlessly nodded in agreement. She nodded like a child. She was happy that I remembered what she had told me – I could tell by the facial expression she was making.

——You used to be so expressionless and doll-like – who was it that changed you so much?

You weren’t a doll anymore now. More like a girl who had someone’s love. You didn’t look like anything but that in my eyes ever since you were with me, though. But now, surely you had someone. This someone had changed you to that point, right?

“Violet,” I said, suppressing the pain of my sweltering chest. “If you have some time, won’t you spend it with me?” I asked.

I was attempting to open the door to courage again. Regardless of what awaited me beyond it, even if I regretted opening it. I asked nevertheless.

You changed me. You made me who I was. You probably didn’t know that. You didn’t have to.

“Yes, by all means.”

And this beautiful woman in front of me, too.

“I had been waiting for a day to come when I inform you about the fruits of my studies.”

Surely, she had also been made by someone.

“Should we ever meet, I had wanted to report them to you, even if you did not remember.”

Envy, affection and attachment ran through my body.

“That is what I was thinking.”

My sixteen-year-old self was screaming. “I was in love with you. I was in love with you. I was in love with you. I’m in love with you. Even now, I still like you,” he shouted.

I no longer had any of the youth and recklessness of those days. However, regarding my love for her, the me from back when I confessed to her was still here.

“I’m sure what I’m gonna say now will trouble you. But would you listen?”

I was still here. That version of me was still inside me.

Violet Evergarden, you...

“You can laugh if you want; you see...”

...to me, you... a woman like you was...

“You were my first love.”

Violet Evergarden, you...

“I still like you. Forgive me.”

To me, you were a woman of the stars.

#violet evergarden #fyeahvioletevergarden #veedit #kyoani #kyoto animation #leon stephanotis #violet evergarden booklets #akatsuki kana #takase akiko #novel #my translation #leon stephanotis and the first star #leon stephanotis to ichibanboshi

[girlboss-molina]

Be Who You Are (No Compromise)

A Julie and the Phantoms Modern Royalty AU

Chapter 6: Growing Pains

AO3 Link

Words: 16340

-----

Alex POV

… 

Alex was surprisingly calm. The pressed white dress shirt was cool against his skin, the slim-fitting blue vest with subtle gold embroidery a calming pressure over his chest. He was anxious, of course, but not nearly as much as he would’ve expected, given the situation. He felt free, light…

And then he was drowning.

His lungs closed, refusing the air he tried to gulp down, throwing away a lifeline. Everything burned, like fiery needles stabbing into him at the speed of sound, not enough to bleed but somehow even more painful. His vision blurred, dizziness or tears, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t hear his own breathing, or lack thereof, over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Everything was wrong. 

Then, the pounding of his heart silenced, his head felt lighter than air. He couldn’t move. He felt like he was in a cloud, no, like he was a cloud, floating in the sky but losing parts of himself as he passed, unable to control what happened, a bystander left helpless to watch havoc. 

Alex tried to move, tried to think, but his brain felt like ice, flaming with shivers as he shook, his lungs leaving no room for air between the panic. 

Something is going to go wrong, he thought. He had a feeling in his gut that fueled his panic, telling him that someone would get hurt tonight, or that something horrible would happen, a feeling he couldn’t shake no matter how unrealistic it might’ve been. He knew Caleb wouldn’t try anything at the ball. It was a huge event, and tons of people would be there. 

He couldn’t sort out his thoughts, though, so he had no choice but to let this panic attack run its course. It felt surreal but painfully there, like when you’re so cold that you feel like you’re on fire. His hands shook, and he barely registered the salty tears coating his lips as he paced across the floor, back and forth until there was a groove in the rug. 

He made his way back to his bed, shaking, barely able to get the breath to fake three sneezes. He almost worried that it didn’t work, but then his door opened, Luke abandoning his post and sinking down next to him. He felt Luke’s arms wrap around him, and the touch immediately grounded him. Rather than a helpless cloud, he was the icy snow crusting the tops of the mountains behind the palace, unable to do anything but laying a foundation for something. And as Luke’s hands traced circles on his shoulder blades, he became the water rushing down the cliff sides, rapid and unpredictable, his breathing quickening but the panic subsiding. And when Luke pressed a gentle, calming kiss to his temple, Alex’s breathing finally slowed, his lungs letting in the air they so craved, and he calmed as the rushing water flowed into a clear pond, each reassuring touch from his best friend like a lily floating on the surface. 

He could hear, finally aware of Luke’s soft whispers of “it’ll be okay,” and “just breathe.” 

“Sorry,” he choked out, seeing Luke shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t be,” he said. “This is a nerve-racking thing. I’m super nervous too.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Alex said dryly, wiping his tears. 

“Really?” Luke challenged, a quiver in his voice, extending a hand in front of Alex, which was trembling. “You’re not alone, I promise.”

“Thanks.” Alex tore a hand through his hair, taking his turn to wrap Luke in a hug and let him let out his emotions. He felt him shake against his chest, but his breathing stayed relatively even. Alex was never great at the whole physical contact thing. His parents were never touchy, to the point where hugs were always a rarity. But Luke was a touchy person, and soon Alex was comfortable with his spontaneous embraces and casual, platonic affection. 

“Okay,” Luke finally said. “It’s almost time. Let’s get ourselves fixed up.” Alex nodded, squeezing him tighter before letting go. They both wandered to the bathroom, gently wiping their faces of tears and fixing their hair. Alex tugged on his sleeves, eliminating any wrinkles, and readjusted his snug vest. 

“Okay,” he breathed. “I’m ready.”

“Me too.”

They both knew it was a lie. But their steps were steady as they walked to the ballroom. 

…

The food was delicious, especially the dessert, and Alex’s cheeks flushed as he wondered if Willie had made it. The expertly piped frosting seemed familiar, and he was almost sure that it was he who had carefully crafted it. 

And if he got emotional over a beautifully piped flower because of the slight possibility that it was made by his crush, no he didn’t. 

Eventually, the dancing started, and Alex had to suffer through. He plastered on an unconvincing smile and did his best to waltz around the ballroom with random Nobility who were chatting non-fucking-stop about how excited he must be for the marriage, and how was he liking it in Dahlia, and did he mind the cold, and what his relationship with Julie was like. Soon, he’d had it, and made some lame excuse about feeling a bit light-headed. Thankfully, he’d been able to ditch them and sit down along the side of the room. 

Reggie plopped down next to him, sitting sideways with his arm draped over the back of the chair. 

“Tired of the Nobles prying?” he assumed. Alex nodded, snorting. 

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they have no gaydar, but it’s still super annoying being asked about my supposed girlfriend,” he added. “But playing heterosexual is still a pain in the ass.”

“Tell me about it,” Reggie agreed. “Every time I have an interview, it’s all, ‘any special lady in your life?’ or ‘have you taken an interest in any ladies of different kingdoms?’ but never ‘what’s your favorite pizza topping’ or ‘why are you the amazing bisexual that you are?’” Alex nodded sarcastically. 

“Of course.” 

“I know I joke,” Reggie added, “but I feel for you, man. It must be super hard.” 

“Yeah. And I do appreciate the attempts to lighten the mood, too.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” 

…

It was nearly eleven when the screaming started. 

Alex’s heart jumped to his throat, his stomach plummeted, and he simultaneously felt like everything was happening at once, and like it was moving in slow motion.

He remembered the sound of people running. Cries of the few children in attendance. Shouts of furious Nobility. Hushed, terrified breathing of the council members. Caleb’s velvety, disgusting voice as he lounged on Ray’s throne. The pounding of his heart in his ears. 

But what he remembered most vividly was the glint of the daggers pressed against each of the council members’ throats. 

“Why?” someone asked. It took a few seconds for Alex to realize that he was the one who’d spoken. Caleb quirked an eyebrow and gave him the side-eye.

“Why what?” Alex was shocked by his sudden swell of angry confidence. 

“You know damn well what I mean. Why are you doing this? We’ve been allies for a century, and you’re going to try to overthrow us and put daggers at the throats of our council members?”

“You know, Alexander, it really is adorable how you talk about Dahlia as if it’s your country. You are, until the wedding, the Tamborian prince.” Caleb twirled an extra dagger around his fingers. 

“That doesn’t change the fact that what you’re doing is wrong, and you know it. You just want more power, clearly, but do you really think people will stand for this and accept you as their leader? Do you really think that anyone with half a mind will be okay with this?”

“Alexander, the beauty of youth also comes with naivete. I wouldn’t expect you to understand yet. But the fact of the matter is that, in life, you must deal with growing pains. This will all be for the better.”

“No,” Julie interrupted, “it won’t. There is a huge difference between growing pains and whatever the hell you’re trying to do, and you know it.” 

Before Alex could add to what she said, he saw the back door of the ballroom open silently, revealing Lilian - the tall, dark-haired woman he’d met when looking for Willie - stalking in, a gleaming knife in her hand. She was followed by a short, plump woman with purple hair, a line of various chefs and bakers, each armed with metal frying pans, and-

No. 

He tried to hide the fear in his eyes as Willie walked in, his brow furrowed and hands steady, wrapped around the knife in his hand. But when their eyes met, and Alex tried to give him the tiniest of head shakes, Willie mouthed something that Alex couldn’t make out before Caleb spoke again.

“I can see you’re all a bit tense,” he said silkily, “so here’s how this will go. Ray here is going to surrender, and I’ll let your precious council members live.” 

Alex watched as the group behind Lilian - thankfully not including Willie - silently lined up behind the seven Kryptonians holding daggers to the council. They made eye contact with one another before simultaneously bringing their frying pans down on their heads as hard as they could, causing everyone to erupt in shouts and screams, some of joy, some of rage, some of fear. Caleb’s head snapped over, and then Lilian spoke. 

“Or,” she said smoothly, “you could surrender, and go back to your own country.” She had the knife trained on his back, the blade gleaming in the lantern-lit room. Willie was in front of Caleb, popping out from behind the throne. Alex’s heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to pound louder or silence itself completely as he saw the terror in Willie’s eyes that he tried to mask. 

“Don’t hurt these people,” Willie said, his voice steadier than Alex would’ve expected. 

“A few bakers trying to save their precious leaders,” Caleb purred, but the malice in his voice was like venom. “How sweet. Unfortunately for you, I have this”- he pulled a small remote out of his pocket -”and while I would rather not use it, I will if I must.” Alex’s stomach dropped. 

A bomb.

“That’s right,” Caleb said over the terrified screams, people running for the doors. “If any of you here have any sense, you’ll run. You shouldn’t have to, of course, but if your leaders continue to be stubborn, it might be for the best.”

“You’re bluffing,” someone called from the audience. “You’re in this room too.”

“Am I?” Caleb challenged, and Alex’s face warped with confusion, until he saw a flicker. 

A hologram. 

“Yes,” Caleb remarked. “You probably didn’t notice my brief trip to the restroom earlier, but that wasn’t actually a restroom trip. I’m far away by now.”

“But what about your representatives?” Reggie asked. 

“Acceptable losses. These aren’t actually representatives, they’re criminals who have been offered the chance of a full pardon if things don't go south. They have, however, been made very clear of the other possibility.” Alex noticed one of them tremble. 

“You might notice that your king is not in the room,” Caleb added, and Alex’s face reddened with fury. 

“What did you do to my dad?” Julie shouted, her hands clenched in fists, shaking. 

“He’s alive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Caleb said. “But I guarantee that, should I press this button, he’ll be in the line of fire.”

Furious shouts echoed in the huge room, and Alex watched as Julie stepped up to the royals’ table. 

“Leave my people alone.” The words were cold, harsh, but clear and steady. “Get out of our kingdom. You have no place here.”

“Yeah,” Reggie interjected. “We’re not going to abandon our people, no matter how much you want us to.” 

“You can’t make us surrender,” Luke informed him. Alex nodded, standing as tall as he could. 

“I truly hate to do this,” Caleb said, without an ounce of sorrow in his voice. “But you leave me no choice.” 

“NO,” Alex yelled, his eyes flicking from Luke to Julie to Carlos to Willie to Reggie, trying to find all of them and get them out of here.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” Caleb added maliciously. Everyone was running and screaming, bustling through the doors, 

“Everyone get out of here, now!” Luke’s voice echoed throughout the ballroom, and Alex barely saw him run after Julie. Reggie ran out another door, and Alex searched for Willie. 

At least thirty seconds had to have passed, searching the ballroom and crowded hallways, ushering people out.

“WILLIE!” his voice was louder than he’d ever known it could be, and he shouted a couple more times, finally meeting a dark brown gaze, panicked and full of all the words they’d left unsaid. Everything moved in slow motion, his legs like lead and air as he sprinted towards him.

The shockwave knocked him backwards, leaving him deaf and blind, barely registering when his back hit the ground, not even noticing the air forced out of his lungs. Alex felt like he was floating, every nerve in his body stretched along a cloud of light.

If this is dying, he thought, it’s not so bad. People don’t need to be so scared. 

His mind was trapped in a void of dark brights, blinding and comforting at the same time, like he was hovering in an endless state of between. Between fire and ice, ground and sky, life and death. He floated, wondering just how long it had been. It felt like minutes but it couldn’t have been, because that was only the shockwave.

Because then came the fire. 

The heat licked at his skin, and Alex was snapped back to reality. 

He wasn’t sure if he was burning or if it was just the air around him, which was now thick with smoke and dust. Bits of debris scattered all around, and he only saw Willie’s face one more time before falling into oblivion.

…

When Alex awoke, the sky was dark, twinkling with stars, but the faint light of sunrise teased the horizon. He was on his back, next to a giant slab of concrete, his face covered in dust. He did his best to sit up, a sharp pain on his arm. He winced, grabbing his bicep, grimacing when his palm came away soaked with blood. And his ankle hurt when he tried to stand. He tested it, but by some miracle, it didn’t feel broken. 

He stood, shaking the dust off of him and limping around, searching for other people. 

For survivors. 

Alex’s breath caught when he saw a group of people farther down the hill. He ran to them, ignoring the pain in his ankle as he bounded down. 

He saw Reggie first. His wrist was wrapped in a bandage, and a streak of red adorned his pale forehead, but he was alive. 

“REGGIE!” he shouted, running, tears blurring his eyes. Reggie’s head snapped towards him. 

“ALEX!” he cried, standing and dashing closer. They met in a hug, collapsing in each others’ arms, sobbing into their shoulders. 

“When we didn’t find you with the survivors we thought-”

“Shh, no, I’m okay,” he said. “A little roughed up, but I’ll live.” He turned his head to the palace, hundreds of feet behind him. He had a clear view of the destruction. 

He’d really underestimated the size of the palace. The ballroom was in the bottom right corner, and was blown to bits. More of the palace was scorched and crumbling, but it appeared the left half had been preserved, somehow. 

“Where’s everyone else?” he asked, refusing to give in to the panic rising in his chest. “Are they okay?”

“Julie’s with Carlos and Ray over where I was,” Reggie said. 

“Wait, Ray survived?” Relief washed over him. “But I thought-”

“I’m not sure how, but he made it,” Reggie said with an incredulous laugh, more tears running down his soot-covered face. “And Erik, Mira, Flynn and Carrie are also okay, same with Luke.” Alex sighed, smiling despite himself. They’d survived. 

“ALEX!” his head snapped to Luke’s voice, and he ran to him, once again ignoring the pain in his ankle. Luke tackled him with a hug despite the sling around his arm. “We thought you were-”

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.” 

…

Alex ran through the gardens, offering quick aid to anyone he could. But he was only half-paying attention, which might’ve made him the worst prince ever. But he needed to find Willie. 

He searched, tears blurring his eyes as he made his way to the last place he needed to search, but also the one he was dreading. 

As he ran into the park, he searched the lawn and sidewalks, nearly dying of relief when he saw Willie, sitting in the middle of the field, his knees hugged to his chest…

Shaking with sobs. 

“Willie!” he called, racing over. Willie’s head snapped up, his eyes red and puffy. His face went from shock to happiness to confusion to incredulity within half a second, and he stood, shaking and walking to Alex. 

A swell of confidence, probably tied with a huge rush of adrenaline, sent Alex running forward, wrapping Willie in a hug, who sobbed into his shoulder. Soon, Alex was crying too. 

“I’m sorry,” Willie whispered shakily. Alex shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was doing, I should’ve grabbed you and ran…” His eyes met Willie’s, and he leaned a little closer, his heart racing until he was just a hairsbreadth away. 

Then, when Willie didn’t pull away, he pressed their lips together. 

Willie’s lips tasted like chocolate and salty tears, chapped and warm. He kissed back almost immediately, Willie’s hands tangling in Alex’s hair, Alex’s arms around his waist, pulling him closer. It might not have been a movie-worthy kiss, between the sobs, soot, and blood, but Alex couldn’t think, too caught up in the euphoria of Willie being alive, and of kissing him. 

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds when they came up for air, foreheads pressed together. 

“When you weren’t with the survivors, I-” Willie choked off into another sob. “I thought I’d lost you,” he finally whispered. Alex shook, hugging him tighter. 

“You’ll never lose me.” 

-----

Julie POV

…

Julie smoothed the front of her violet ball gown, letting the layers of tulle float gently to the floor. Straightening the silky bodice, her hands shook with anxiety, but she didn’t let herself succumb to it. The gown was identical to the one she’d worn to the welcome feast a week ago, only rather than navy blue, this one was violet. Otherwise, though, it was the same; a silky, strapless dress with layers of tulle, one layer going over her chest and collarbone in a halter neckline. However, while the blue one had tiny starlike diamonds sewn into the skirt, this one had no jewels, but the tulle halter was embroidered with dahlia designs. 

She walked to her vanity, twisting her hair into two braids, tying them together and letting the rest of her hair poof at the base of her neck. She drew her eyeliner into a small, sharp wing, brushed on mascara, and painted her lips with a shimmery gloss. She massaged a bit of lotion into her arms and spritzed some perfume into the air, walking through the mist so that it was subtle. 

Her low heels made quiet tapping noises as she walked across her bathroom, examining her reflection to make sure she looked perfect. 

Once she’d made sure her dress wasn’t crooked and that her eyeliner was even, Julie sat on the foot of her bed and grabbed her phone. The time read 19:44. 16 minutes until the ball. 

A knock on her door drew her attention. 

“Come in.” She gave a weak smile when her dad walked through the doorway. 

“Hey, mija,” he said, “you okay?” Julie shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I’m nervous, but also just anxious to get this over with. With any luck, it’ll go well, and Caleb will revoke his declaration.”

“That’s the plan,” Ray agreed. A wistful smile spread on his face, and his eyes turned glassy. 

“You look beautiful,” he told her. Julie smiled.

“Thanks.”

“Your mother had a dress just like that,” he added. “You look just like her.” Julie stood, blinking back a tear as she hugged him. He squeezed back, finally letting go with a sigh. 

“Everything will be okay.”

“Here’s hoping. And if not, we’ll make it.” Ray nodded, his expression unreadable as he left, closing her door, almost seeming like he wasn’t sure if it was true.

Right at that moment, Julie decided that it would be. If things went south, no matter what, she would fight to make sure they all made it out alive. She would fight in any way she had to if it meant her family stayed safe.

She would fight, and she would win.

…

As she walked into the ballroom, she found her assigned seat, in the center of the long royal table, just beside her father. To her right was Luke, then Alex, Carrie, Flynn, Erik, Mira, and Carlos. To her left, after Ray, was Reggie, Councilwoman Noah, Councilman Richard, Councilperson Aster, Councilwoman Mei Lin, Councilwoman Anika, Councilman Ryan, and Councilman Trevor. 

The council members weren’t technically royalty, but they were the next tier of leaders in Dahlia, and the royal table was very long, so they got to sit there as well. 

Around the perimeter, circular tables were arranged with white tablecloths draping over them, and as the Dahlian Nobility flooded in, many of the seats filled. Soon, though, King Covington arrived.

He was dressed in a black three-piece, a black and violet cloak over his shoulders. His top hat was still perched on his expertly-styled hair, and his blue eyes pierced Julie’s before travelling to Ray. Ray stood, his face neutral. Covington took off his hat and pressed it to his chest, dipping in an elaborate bow. 

“It is an honor to be here, King Molina,” he purred. “I do hope we can resolve this quickly.”

“As do I. Hopefully it will be easy. We have been allies for over a century, after all.” Covington’s smile morphed into a sneer.

“Indeed.” He flourished to his table, Kryptonian representatives right behind him, as they arranged themselves. Ray cleared his throat, and Julie took a deep breath. 

“Welcome,” he said, “to the ball. This event is a celebration of allyship, a hope for peace, and a symbol of unity amongst our people. I hope all of you in attendance will find yourselves comfortable. Please, do not hesitate to speak up if you are not. Now please, enjoy the feast.”

Soft chatter echoed in the grand room, the clicking of cutlery on plates ringing in Julie’s ears. She did her best to focus on her food, but her eyes kept flicking to Covington. He was very shady. She couldn’t decide if he was always like that, or if something was off tonight, but he spoke in hushed tones to his representatives, glancing furtively around the room. Julie turned back to her food.

“How are you holding up?” Luke’s voice snapped her out of her daze. 

“Alright,” she said after a moment. “You?”

“Alright.” 

It was a lie, of course. Neither of them were alright, but they had to pretend to be. 

Julie noticed Luke’s eyes flicker to Caleb. 

“Something seems off,” he murmured. “I’m not sure if he’s always like this, but my gut tells me something’s wrong.”

“I had the same feeling,” Julie admitted, looking at her food so people wouldn’t notice her occasional glances to Covington and Luke. 

“Hey, dad?” she asked after a moment, her voice hushed. Ray looked at her. 

“Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my gut is telling me that something bad is going to happen. Look at Covington,” she added when he looked skeptical. “He’s glancing around like he expects someone to sneak up on him, and he’s hunched. He looks so secretive, but he’s usually flamboyant.”

“Hmm,” Ray murmured. “You’re right, he is acting strange. But I’m sure everything’s fine, mija.” He patted her hand. “Your dad’s got this.” Julie offered half a smile in reply, but met Luke’s eyes nervously. 

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” he finally said. “He’s probably plotting what ridiculous outfit he’ll wear tomorrow.” The joke lightened the mood, and Julie giggled. Luke smiled, biting his lip to hold back a laugh. 

They finished their dinner, and then, the mingling began. Dessert would be brought up soon, but this was an opportunity for everyone to stand and walk around to see other people. Julie roamed the room, shaking hands and speaking cordially with the Nobility, exchanging a couple jokes with Lady Cadence. 

When butlers brought dessert from the kitchens, Julie gave a friendly curtsy to the people around her before making her way back to the table. The dessert was a mixture of mini red velvet cupcakes, piped with cream cheese frosting, and beautifully decorated cakes. Thin layers of fondant gave them warm pastel coloring, and frosting had been piped into flowers and swirls. 

She helped herself to a slice of cake, but didn’t finish it. Nerves were taking up more room in her stomach than she’d thought. So, she opted to sip her water, scanning the crowd. She noticed Lady Amara holding hands with Lady Sierra and smiled. She’d known they’d liked each other, so that warmed her heart. 

Soon, everyone had finished dessert, and the music volume increased, slow and rhythmic. People made their way to the dance floor with partners, waltzing around gracefully. Julie smiled as Carrie dragged Flynn over, spinning her around and catching her. Flynn protested but laughed. 

Soon, Julie was twirling around the dance floor, making idle chatter as she slowly waltzed with kind Nobility, talking cordially about political affairs. 

As she sat down on one of the free chairs at the edge of the ballroom, she sighed. Thankfully, everything seemed to be going well. She smoothed the tulle of her dress, fixing a curl back into a braid, when Luke’s voice caught her attention.

“My lady,” he said with a grin, dipped in a bow. “May I have this dance?” Julie stifled a laugh. He was such a dork. But she nodded, putting her hand in his and letting him pull her closer, hoping she hid her shiver when he gently placed his hand on her waist, the other holding her hand up as they danced.

“I’m surprised at how well this has gone so far,” he told her. She couldn’t help but nod, making sure nobody was paying attention.

“I half suspected Caleb would’ve tried something by now.” 

“Same.”

“But I still have a nagging feeling in my gut,” Julie admitted. Luke nodded, quiet for a moment. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, though. They held each other's gaze, and Julie’s hand felt right at home on his shoulder as she swayed. 

“There’s nothing to do about it now, though,” Luke reasoned, and Julie smiled, grinning wider when he twirled her. Her heart fluttered, but sank when Luke frowned. Half of his smile returned.

“We should probably trade off, now,” he sighed. Julie nodded disappointedly. Nobody could suspect that they didn’t want to go along with the arranged marriage. And besides, Luke might like her, but probably not how she liked him. He just cared about people’s reputations. 

She gave half a smile and twirled again, before someone took her wrist. 

“Your highness, may I have this dance?” The sickening voice of Caleb Covington filled Julie’s ears, and she wanted nothing more than to rip away from his clammy clutch and walk away. But this was for diplomacy, so she suppressed her shudder and offered a smile.

“Of course.”

“You know,” Covington said silkily, “this is a beautiful palace.” Julie nodded.

“Yes, I believe your grandfather helped my great-grandfather design it once we became allies,” she pointed out. “It has architectural properties that were inspired by Kryptonian styles, but was also its own thing.”

“Yes, one might say that,” Caleb agreed. “But, isn’t it ironic that my own grandfather, who was the king of the most prolific country in the world, held no reservations against designing a palace for a new ‘country’ that never should have existed?” Julie bit back a sarcastic remark. 

“With all due respect, your majesty”- she twirled, grateful for the moment without Caleb’s hand on her waist -”At that time, Dahlia had already been founded over a century earlier, and relations had stabled. Our resources were significant, and our citizens had settled in an unoccupied land. The Dahlian revolution was a revolution purely because Krypto’s king at the time was too stubborn in the years before his passing to let go.”

“You’ve studied your history, I see,” Caleb remarked. 

“I have been raised for this,” Julie agreed with half a smile, but it wasn’t genuine. “Your grandfather ascended over a century ago, and his goal was always peace, which was why he worked so hard to forge an allyship between Krypto and Dahlia. Relations have been stable between us ever since. We would rather keep it that way.”

“You know,” Caleb said with a click, “the funny thing about running a country is that you must always aim for growth. In that growth lies certain… growing pains, shall we say? Krypto is destined for greatness, and Dahlia is the rebellious teenager who was once an obedient child, and will soon be the respectful adult with familial ties.”

“Or,” Julie countered smoothly, “if you’re so set on growth, you could expand on uninhabited land. More resources means more wealth, and more land means more growth for your borders and space for your people. Holding onto a grudge that was resolved before you were born will only hold you back.”

She knew the words were risky, and might be perceived as disrespectful, but Caleb’s smirk grew into a laugh.

“My dear Julie, you are too smart for your own good. And yet,” he added, “there is still so much you don’t understand. You’re so young, I wouldn’t expect you to understand it in the first place.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I am just as qualified as anyone else in this room.” 

“But you don’t know what it’s like to lead a country on your own-”

“And I’ll never have to, because I have the sense to not distance myself from my people.”

“You’re marching into dangerous territory,” Covington warned, but Julie didn’t care. 

“Like I said,” she said with finality, “our goal is to resolve things peacefully and go back to our allyship. Please enjoy the ball.”

…

Julie had taken her chance to escape Caleb, and she was grateful that she did, because she got room to breathe, and got to hang out with her friends. 

She danced with Alex, chatting idly about the ball, and about a certain baker with whom Alex was absolutely smitten. She grinned to herself, asking questions to make sure that this baker was actually worthy of Alex. She knew he could be a bit… simpy, so she had to make sure she had the brain cell, and then approve of his future boyfriend. But, if Alex was to be believed, the baker - Willie, as she learned - was one of the sweetest people to ever walk the Earth, just shy of Reggie. So, Julie took his word for it. 

She twirled, letting the skirt of her dress flare outwards. 

“Okay, bro, that dress is amazing,” Alex noted. “It looks like the one you wore last week.”

“That’s because it is! Well, the same style at least. It’s a different color.”

“Well, same or different, it looks great.”

“Thanks,” she said with a grin. She noticed Alex’s eyes flicking around the room, scanning the people as if he was searching for someone.

“Looking for someone?” she asked, a shit-eating grin on her face. Alex’s face turned bright red as he stammered in denial. Julie laughed. 

“You know what? We’re done dancing, you can come back after you quit being an asshole,” he decided, flicking his wrist. Julie snorted; his gay panic was hilarious. 

She found herself dancing with Flynn, who gave her The Look, glancing at Luke, who was playfully dancing with Alex. They weren’t even dancing, it was more just… messing around in a rhythmic formation. But when Luke’s eyes caught Julie’s, she quickly looked away. Flynn rolled her eyes as she twirled Julie.

“Jules, I know I can’t yell at you about this since we’re at a ball, but come on. You have to know he’s absolutely smitten with you.” Julie sighed.

“Or he’s just a dork. Which is very, very possible. I mean, have you met him?”

“Then tell me why he doesn’t act like that around anybody else?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But even if he does like me, there’s nothing we can do about it. It would be a disaster.” 

“Jules, you have to go for what you want!” Flynn took a breath as she twirled, giving an awkward smile to anybody looking their way. “Talk to your dad,” she added quietly. 

“What? Flynn, are you fucking insane?” Julie looked around; it was her turn to give an awkward smile. “I can’t tell dad about this.” 

“Can’t tell me about what?” Ray’s voice was in a normal tone and volume, but he looked concerned as he walked towards them. “Mijas, are you alright?” Julie opened her mouth, trying to speak, glancing to Flynn.

“We’re fine,” she said at last. Ray quirked an eyebrow. 

“Honey, you know I would never judge you, right?” Julie sighed, letting Flynn hand her over to dance with her dad. 

“I know. It’s just…” she couldn’t find the right words. 

“Is this about Caleb? Did he do something to you?”

“No, no,” she assured him, “it’s not about that. It’s about something else.” Her heart sank when he looked down.

“The marriage?” he asked quietly. She sighed. 

“Yeah.” 

“I know.” 

“No, that’s the thing, dad, you don’t know. You know that Alex and I don’t want to get married, and I know that you tried to get us out of it, but it just hurts so much more now that…”

“No, mija, I know. You aren’t as subtle as you think.” Julie’s jaw dropped, and she stuttered for words, refusing to glance over to Luke. 

“I’m sorry,” she finally sighed, “I’m so, so sorry. This isn’t something you need added to your plate.”

“Julie, you have nothing to apologize for. I know you can’t control feelings. I’ve tried. Did I ever tell you how your mother and I met?” Julie shook her head. 

“She was about your age,” Ray began. “I met her at a cafe, while she was out in the city taking a break from being a princess. I didn’t even know it was her. But as soon as I did know, I immediately tried to ignore my feelings for her. But every time I saw her, I remembered her smile, and how kind she was when we spoke.

“Well, I would occasionally see her in person. We got to know each other, and no matter how much I tried to repress how I felt and insist that I just wanted to be friends with her, it didn’t work. But it all worked out in the end.”

“Yeah, well, Mom wasn’t in an arranged marriage. Her falling in love with you wasn’t treason.”

“Maybe, but…” Ray trailed off. “I’m still trying to get you out of it, I promise.”

“Thanks, Papá.”

“Of course. But you have my word that, should you choose to stand up and face these feelings, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. I can’t promise that if people find out there won’t be trouble, but I’ll do anything I can.”

“Only if you extend the same courtesy to Alex,” Julie told him. “As well as whoever either of us might love.” He nodded.

“Of course, mija.” He pulled her in for a hug. “It’ll all be okay.” She nodded against his shoulder. 

“Thank you.”

…

Julie was exhausted. She must’ve danced with everyone in attendance, plastering on a smile and talking about whatever. But now, she could’ve collapsed and fallen asleep. 

That is, until she heard the screaming. 

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her heart pounding in her ears as she ran to the end of the ballroom, stopping in her tracks when she saw Covington dramatically sitting in her father’s thronelike chair. He sat sideways, leaning on one armrest with his legs over the other, looking very pleased with himself. And next to him…

Next to him, all seven council members were trapped in their chairs, with daggers pressed to their throats. None of them made a sound, but the fear in their eyes was heartbreaking. Everyone in the ballroom shouted, screamed, and cried for justice.

“Like I said,” Covington shouted over the din, “you will either surrender peacefully to Kryptonian rule, or we will take it by force.”

…

A bomb. 

Julie could barely think. 

She took a deep breath, her hands shaking as she clenched them into fists and released, finally clearing her head. Normally she worked well under pressure, but this? This was something else entirely. 

The chaos of people shouting and running, trying to escape the ballroom gave her a chance to run for Carlos.

“JULIE!” he shouted, tears running down his face. Julie grabbed his wrist, running out the door of the ballroom. 

“I’m going to get more people out,” she said. “I want you to grab whoever you see on your way and run straight out the front gates as far as you can, okay? But-” Carlos shook his head, inhaling to interject, but Julie cut him off -”No, Carlos, listen to me. Do not try to be a hero. I want you to run as fast as you can, okay?”

Carlos finally nodded, wrapping Julie in a hug and leaving the chest of her dress soaked with tears. 

“I love you,” he choked out before running.

“I love you too,” she told him, never having meant the words more than she did in that moment. 

“Julie,” came Luke’s voice from behind her, his eyes filled with panic. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, traitorous tears finally leaking down her face. “You should be running, you should get out of here, get Alex, get Reggie, get anyone you can and get out!”

“No,” Luke said firmly, “I’m staying with you. But please, just-” 

“No! You need to get out of here! I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.” Luke grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a supply closet as more people ran by. Julie gasped in the dark.

“Please,” he said as her eyes adjusted. “Please, Julie. In case I don't make it, there’s something you need to know.” He took a breath, but Julie cut him off.

“No, don’t even go there.” She shook her head, letting her curls fly in the air.  

“Please,” he whispered. Julie couldn’t speak, just shaking her head. More shouts and screams echoed from the hallway. Luke’s eyes met Julie’s, and she couldn’t find the right words to describe the intensity and swirling, indescribable emotions in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, a single tear sliding down his cheek. Then, Julie met him halfway. 

When her lips met his, they tasted salty from tears, and her arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. His hand cupped her jaw, and she sank into the touch. 

“I had to do that,” he told her when they pulled away, another tear rolling down his face. “At least once.” 

Then, he ran out of the closet, nobody noticing within the chaos. Julie chased after him, running back into the mostly-empty ballroom. The Kryptonian representatives - or criminals - had let the council members go, and were running as fast as they could. A few Nobles were also running, but one line of Caleb’s kept echoing in Julie’s mind. 

“I guarantee that, should I press this button, he’ll be in the line of fire.”

Caleb was about to press the button. 

He was about to kill her father. 

“DAD!” she screamed. 

“JULIE!” it was Luke who shouted it, and Julie’s eyes blurred, spilling tears as she sobbed into his shoulder. 

“We have to get out of here,” he told her, and she nodded, running as fast as she could, her hand clasped in his. They’d made it to the front gates before the shockwave hit them, quickly followed by fire which licked at their skin, the heat making it hard to breathe; not that they were able to breathe, the shockwave having knocked the wind out of them. They flew down the steps, and Julie was barely able to roll in time to not break her neck. Luke was behind her, and she did her best to catch him as they scrambled, making it to the hill before blacking out. 

…

When Julie awoke, it was to her father’s voice, blinded by light and grief and hope. 

I’m dead, she thought. But the grass under her back was cold and wet and very much making a bruise form on her spine, and the whooshing air in her ears felt real as well, and the sound of people crying and talking was heartbreaking but brought her back to reality, however horrible it might’ve been. 

She blearily opened her eyes, seeing her dad and Carlos, ashen, dirty faces streaked with tears. They wrapped her in a hug, and she sobbed into their shoulders. 

“Dad-”

“I’m here, mija.”

“But I thought you were dead! Caleb said-”

“I was able to make it out,” he assured her. “I’m a little beaten up, but I’m alive.”

“Where’s Luke?” she asked, choked up with smoke and fear. 

“Right here.” Luke’s voice was choked up, and he wrapped her in a gentle hug. She cried into his shoulder for a moment.

“He’s okay,” Carlos said. “We’re okay.” Julie cried harder, standing and collapsing into Luke’s arms, running to Reggie and Carrie and Flynn and Mira and Erik and-

“Wait,” she said, trying to convince her eyes that she’d seen wrong. 

“Where’s Alex?”

“He’s okay,” Reggie said. Julie hadn’t even noticed that he’d walked away. But now, his face was covered with happy tears, and he had Alex’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, helping him walk with a sprained ankle. Julie rushed to him and hugged him as tightly as she could, finally letting her tears break free.

They were okay. 

-----

Luke POV

...

When Alex’s breathing quickened, Luke had a feeling this would be one of the worst panic attacks yet. So, it was no surprise when three fake sneezes echoed in the room, Luke was prepared to walk in and sit next to his best friend. 

He wrapped his arms around Alex, trying to calm his trembling. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered, but Alex didn’t hear him. Luke kept holding him, trying to stay steady for him, letting Alex bury his head in his shoulder. He traced circles on Alex’s shoulder blades, thankful when he calmed a bit, but his breathing was rapid and shaky. 

“Everything will be okay, Lex,” he said. “I promise.”

Luke leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Alex’s temple, tracing gentle circles along his shoulders. 

“Just breathe,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay.” Alex hugged him tighter, and Luke patted his back.

“Sorry,” he choked out, and Luke immediately shook his head.

“Don’t be. This is a nerve-racking thing. I’m super nervous too.” It wasn’t a lie. Luke had always been good at holding himself together when he was scared or anxious, but he was still trembling. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Alex said dryly, wiping his tears. 

“Really?” Luke challenged, hating how his voice quivered, even though it proved his point. He showed Alex his shaking hands. “You’re not alone,” he reminded him. “I promise.”

“Thanks.” Then, it was Alex’s turn to wrap him in a hug, and Luke was surprised but comforted by it. He let himself sink into the embrace, sure he was shaking, but he didn’t care. That was his best friend, and he was warm, and Luke needed a hug. He held him tighter, shaking, finally letting go, his heart protesting the lack of hugs.

“Okay, it’s almost time. Let’s get ourselves fixed up.” Alex nodded, squeezing him tighter before letting go. Luke followed him to the bathroom, fixing his heather grey vest and readjusting his sleeves, fixing a loose strand of hair. 

Neither of them were ready, but they nodded to each other and walked to the ballroom. 

…

Luke was rather surprised when he saw that his assigned seat was between Julie and Alex. It would’ve made more sense for Julie to be next to Alex, since they were supposed to be getting married. Not that Luke was complaining, of course.

“How are you holding up?” he asked quietly.

“Alright,” Julie replied after hesitating. Luke knew it was a lie. “You?”

“Alright.” 

Luke’s eyes flickered to Caleb against his will. Something in his gut was nagging at him that something was wrong.

“Something seems off,” he murmured. “I’m not sure if he’s always like this, but my gut tells me something’s wrong.”

“I had the same feeling,” Julie admitted, confirming Luke’s anxieties. He did his best to calm the swelling bubble of worries in his stomach, taking another bite of his food. He heard Julie whisper to her dad, mentioning that she felt like something was off. Luke kept glancing at her, never lingering for more than a moment before looking away, usually to see if Caleb was still acting sketchy.

Of course, he was. 

Julie caught his eye, and he couldn’t ignore how nervous she looked. He bit his lip, hating how anxious this was all making her. She didn’t deserve this distress. Luke had to fight the urge to reach and take her hand; even under the table, it would be a super risky move.

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” he finally said. “He’s probably plotting what ridiculous outfit he’ll wear tomorrow.” Luke grinned when she laughed, for once not minding the butterflies in his stomach and how his heart started doing flips when she smiled. 

When the dancing started, Julie went to the large floor, speaking cordially with Nobles, and Luke was entranced. She flitted around the room like a butterfly. Her sparkly dress caught the light as she twirled, and the violet coloring made her look like she’d been dipped in twilight, with the softness of the clouds but the ferocity of a raging hurricane, the strength of a rushing river but the gentle touch of a feathery breeze. 

Luke stood at the edge of the floor, dancing with many people, including an overeager middle school girl who was both shy and enthusiastic. He gave her a smile and moved on to the next person. 

At some point, he ended up dancing with Mira, whose shimmery aquamarine gown had flecks of gold sewn in, glinting in the light. But he kept trying to subtly spot Julie in the crowd. Mira laughed.

“Dude, you’re killing me,” she said with an exasperated grin. “Go find her and ask her to dance!” Luke shook his head.

“We’re in a public setting,” he reasoned. It definitely wasn’t because of the nerves swelling in his chest. The eye roll Mira gave him was legendary. 

“And? It’s a ball! People dance! Alex has had to dance with a ton of people already, but nobody suspects him of treason, right? So who’s to say you can’t dance with Jules?” Luke sighed. 

“I know, I know, it’s just…” he trailed off, searching for the right words as he twirled Mira. “I feel weird,” he told her. “I’m normally really confident and can just go for things, but for some reason I just… can’t. I hate this feeling,” he added. “Nervousness does not fit me.” 

“It doesn’t,” Mira agreed. “But it is sweet. And I can guarantee you that she wants to dance with you too.” Luke’s eyes widened.

“How do you know? Wait,” he said, a huge grin spreading on his face as he lowered his voice, “do you think she likes me like I like her?” He shook his head, trying to get rid of those horrible, treasonous thoughts.

“I’m not going to betray Julie’s trust,” Mira said, “but I am going to call you an oblivious, pining dumbass.” When Luke didn’t respond, she added, “get it together! Go tell her how you feel!”

“I can’t do that,” he sighed. “Even if I really, really want to. We both know what would happen, Mira.”

“I know, I just…” Mira sighed. “I hate seeing her so doubtful. She’s confident in herself, and she doesn’t need a guy to tell her she’s amazing. But watching one of my best friends wonder whether someone she’s totally gone for feels the same, asking herself why would he be, when the answer is so obvious… I just hate it. You make her happy, Patterson.” Mira twirled, giving him a knowing look. “And I know she makes you happy, too.

“Things are happening, and the situation is awful,” she told him, giving a smile and encouraging nod to the other side of the ballroom. “Make sure it’s worth it.”

And then she was gone, having vanished into the crowd, leaving Luke with a goal and a pounding heart. 

But he wasn’t a quitter, so he made his way across the room, his heart fluttering when he found Julie. 

“My lady,” he said with a grin, dipped in a bow. “May I have this dance?” 

He heard Julie laugh, briefly saw her head bounce in a nod, and then her hand was in his. Everywhere she touched felt warm and cold at the same time, and Luke smiled to himself as he pulled her closer, gently putting his hand on her waist as they danced. 

Julie’s eyes shone in the light, deep brown with flecks of inky black and shimmering gold. 

“I’m surprised at how well this has gone so far,” he said. Julie nodded, glancing around.

“I half suspected Caleb would’ve tried something by now.” Luke agreed.

“Same.”

“But I still have a nagging feeling in my gut,” Julie admitted. He nodded, smiling at her. The butterflies in his stomach were steady but light, and the small pressure of her hand on his shoulder kept him grounded. He had a feeling he would’ve floated away otherwise. 

“There’s nothing to do about it now, though,” Luke reasoned, and Julie smiled, grinning wider when he twirled her. Luke noticed Covington staring at him, a frown on his face and one eyebrow quirked. Luke’s face fell.

“We should probably trade off now.” He hated the coldness in his hand and on his shoulder as she let go, hated Julie’s disappointed frown, and most of all, he hated Caleb’s slimy smile as he took Julie’s wrist, and how pleased with himself he looked when she danced with him out of politeness. Luke could see how uncomfortable she was. Her whole body tensed, and her smile was extremely forced. He wanted nothing more than to get him away from her, to get him to stop touching her when she clearly wasn’t okay with it. But that would’ve caused a huge spectacle, and Julie wouldn’t want him to cause drama. So he walked away. 

…

When the screaming began, Luke’s stomach dropped. 

Then when he turned and saw all seven council members with daggers pressed to their throats, he nearly vomited. 

And when Caleb pulled out a small remote, threatening to detonate a bomb, anger contorted all of his features, his fists shaking, fingers tracing the outlines of two daggers inside his vest. His eyes flicked to Reggie, then Alex, then Julie, all of whom were terrified, confused, and angry.

“You’re bluffing,” someone called from the audience after Caleb made his threat about the bomb. “You’re in this room too.” Luke nodded. 

“Am I?” Caleb challenged, and it took Luke a moment to realize that he was a hologram. A terrifyingly real one, too. 

“Yes,” Caleb remarked. “You probably didn’t notice my brief trip to the restroom earlier, but that wasn’t actually a restroom trip. I’m far away by now.”

“But what about your representatives?” Reggie asked. 

“Acceptable losses. These aren’t actually representatives, they’re criminals who have been offered the chance of a full pardon if things don't go south. They have, however, been made very clear of the other possibility.” 

“You might notice that your king is not in the room,” Caleb added, and Luke gasped, running to Julie, whispering that it would be okay. She barely noticed him. 

“What did you do to my dad?” she shouted, her hands clenched in fists, shaking, a couple tears running down her face. 

“He’s alive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Caleb said. “But I guarantee that, should I press this button, he’ll be in the line of fire.”

Furious shouts echoed in the huge room, large in part from Luke himself. Jule shrugged his hand off her shoulder, stepping up to the royals’ table. 

“Leave my people alone. Get out of our kingdom,” she instructed. “You have no place here.”

“Yeah,” Reggie interjected. “We’re not going to abandon our people, no matter how much you want us to.” 

“You can’t make us surrender,” Luke added loudly, squaring his shoulders. 

“I truly hate to do this,” Caleb said, without an ounce of sorrow in his voice. “But you leave me no choice.” 

Luke sprinted towards the doors next to Julie.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” Caleb added maliciously. Everyone was running and screaming, bustling through the doors, 

“Everyone get out of here, now!” Luke’s voice was louder than he’d ever known it could be, or maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He ran out the door, ushering people away, directing them to the nearest exit and telling them to run as far as they could. But his mind was still on Julie.

He searched the crowd, craning his neck before he found her talking to Carlos and hugging her. He raced towards her.

“Julie,” he said quietly. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You should be running, you should get out of here, get Alex, get Reggie, get anyone you can and get out!” Luke shook his head.

“No,” Luke said firmly, “I’m staying with you. But please, just-” 

“No! You need to get out of here! I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.” Luke grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a supply closet as more people ran by, hating the way he was shaking.

“Please,” he said, blinking as his eyes adjusted, and blinking back tears. “Please, Julie. In case I don't make it, there’s something you need to know.” He took a breath, but Julie cut him off.

“No, don’t even go there.” She shook her head, but Luke couldn’t think.

“Please,” he whispered. He looked at her, trying to take in every beautiful detail; the deep brown of her eyes, the curls of hair draped over her shoulders, the small gap in her teeth, the curve of her collarbone, the beautiful melody of her voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said, a single tear sliding down his cheek. Julie leaned forward as he did, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was brief and tasted like chocolate, full of all the emotions he couldn’t find the words for. She kissed him back, and he couldn’t explain how much it hurt knowing that it might be the last time.

“I had to do that,” he whispered when they pulled away, another tear rolling down his face. “At least once.” 

Then, he ran out of the closet, right into the mostly-empty ballroom to get everybody out and search for Ray. Caleb’s hologram smiled maliciously at him. Luke ignored it, running and helping people up as they fell, before Julie’s voice pierced the air. 

“DAD!” she screamed. No! Why was she here? She was supposed to run!

“JULIE!” he shouted, running to her.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, and thankfully she didn’t protest. She took his hand and he ran with her as fast as he could without pulling her over, making it to the front gates when the shockwave hit him. Heat from the raging fire burned the air and made it impossible to breathe, and Luke did his best to land steadily as Julie caught him after rolling. He ran as fast as he could, and everything seemed to move in slow motion as he looked back at Julie, her hand slipping from his, the final shockwave blasting him backwards.

He was blacked out before he hit the ground. 

…

When Luke awoke, he coughed, pain in his chest from the smoke and debris. His head was pounding, a drop of blood rolling down his cheek. As he sat up, a sharp pain in his shoulder told him he’d dislocated it. He grimaced, testing it; thankfully it wasn’t severe, and he bit down on torn fabric of his vest as he popped it back into place, using the rest as a sling he hastily tied. 

He stood, running down the pile of debris as he found Reggie. 

“REGGIE!” he shouted, running as fast as he could. Reggie’s face was streaked with tears, and he ran to him. Luke wrapped him in a one-armed hug, a sob escaping his lips. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. Reggie nodded. 

“I’m okay,” he choked out. “Sprained my wrist, but I’m okay.” 

“Where’s Julie?” he asked, looking around. 

“She’s okay, don’t worry,” Reggie told him, another tear streaking down the dust on his face. “But we haven’t found Alex yet.” Luke’s stomach dropped.

He was supposed to be Alex’s guard. He was supposed to protect him, and now he might not even be alive. Luke’s eyes blurred with tears and his chest heaved with sobs. 

“That doesn’t mean he’s…” Reggie trailed off. “We haven’t searched all of the grounds yet, so there’s still a good chance he’s alright and we just haven’t found him.” The words helped, but Luke couldn’t stop crying. Alex was missing. 

“Ray’s also alive,” Reggie added, and Luke was shocked enough to dry his tears. 

“But I thought-”

“He made it, somehow.” Reggie’s laugh was incredulous. “Everyone else is okay, too.” 

But not Alex. 

…

Luke practically flew down the hill to Julie, who was still passed out, her gown tattered and skin covered in soot and dust. A few streaks of blood marred her arms, but she seemed okay other than that, and Luke was too relieved to explain when he noticed that her breathing was steady. 

Ray wrapped him in a hug, which took Luke by surprise, but he hugged back. 

“I’m so sorry, mijo,” he said. “I should’ve-”

“No,” Luke said. “No, you did everything you could’ve. And we just need to find Alex.” He willed the words to be true, but Ray shook his head. 

“There were four casualties,” he whispered. “Four of my people, gone, because I couldn’t…”

“That was not your fault,” Luke told him sharply. “You hear me? Not. Your. Fault. It was Covington who did that, not you. You did everything you could.” Ray nodded.

“Okay.” He shook more, but stood, patting Luke on the shoulders, looking back down to Julie. Flynn was knelt next to her, holding her hand and whispering for her to please wake up. 

“She’s okay,” Luke whispered to himself. Then, he noticed Reggie was gone, and-

When he looked up the hill, he saw Reggie with a familiar tall, blonde boy in a torn blue suit.

“ALEX!” Luke ignored the pain in his shoulder as he bolted, running and tackling his best friend in a hug. He choked back sobs, but some tears still made their way through. “We thought you were-”

“I’m okay,” Alex said. “I’m okay.” Luke nodded into his shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry, man, I should’ve been with you, I should’ve-”

 “No,” Alex said. “We’re okay. You have nothing to apologize for.” Luke nodded. 

“Everyone else is okay, too,” he said. “Come on.” 

Luke ran back down the hill, followed by Alex and Reggie. But Luke sprinted as fast as he could when he noticed that Julie was stirring. He blinked back tears, a huge grin on his face.

“Where’s Luke?” he heard her ask. 

“Right here.” He leaned down and gently wrapped her in a hug, helping her up. She was shaky but didn’t fall, finally tackling him in a huge hug, crying into his shoulder. Luke cried into the top of her head, pressing a kiss to her hair, not caring who was watching. He let her to the others. 

“Where’s Alex?” she asked, her voice trembling. 

“He’s okay,” Reggie said from a few feet away as he helped Alex, who seemed to have sprained his ankle.

“We’re all okay,” Luke told her, wrapping them all in a giant hug.

We’re okay. 

-----

Reggie POV

…

Reggie’s hands shook as he fastened the buttons on his silky red vest, adjusting and readjusting the dark sleeves of his shirt. He took a deep breath, stretching and grabbing his bass to calm him down. He ran through the notes for Icarus, sliding down the A string and adding in some extra notes for funsies. He grinned to himself as he spun, tapping his foot with the music. 

Humming to himself, Reggie glanced out the window. The sun hadn’t set, but it was going to soon. It was retreating west, preparing to dive behind the mountains. And the time on his phone told him that he needed to be in the ballroom in ten minutes. He sighed and decided to go now. It was on the other side of the palace, and he might as well go early. 

…

When Reggie had settled into his seat next to Ray, Councilwoman Noah soon sat next to him. 

“Hi, Reggie,” she said with a smile. “How are you?”

“Pretty nervous,” he admitted, “but excited. I love balls. They’re so fun, even if we have to dress all fancy.” Councilwoman Noah laughed.

“Well, you look wonderful,” she told him. Reggie beamed. 

“Thanks! You do too!” 

“Thanks, hon.” She shook her head wistfully. “You’re so young. You shouldn’t have to deal with such a stressful situation,” Noah said. “None of you should.” Reggie knew she was thinking about Flynn.

“Flynn’s strong,” he reminded her. “And she’s Julie’s best friend. Plus, she knows that she doesn’t have to deal with all of the stress. She does it because she can handle it, and because she wants to.” Noah nodded. 

“Plus, she probably likes being able to say she’s best friends with the princess,” he added as an afterthought. Councilwoman Noah laughed, and Reggie felt very accomplished. 

“Thanks. I always have to remind myself that she’s grown up,” she admitted. “It feels like only yesterday her hair was just long enough to braid.”

“I know,” Reggie said. “Even though Julie’s only a year younger than me, every time I see her in the meeting room, I worry that she’s going to get too stressed. I don’t know how she handles it.”

“She’ll make a great queen one day,” Noah said softly. Reggie nodded. 

“Yeah. She will.” 

…

The food was delicious. Reggie couldn’t help but smile as he finished, leaving room for dessert. He might’ve been a prince, but he had his priorities in order. And dessert was very high up there. 

As people began mingling before dessert, Reggie wandered around as well, chatting with random Nobles. Lady Cadence asked how his music was going. Sir Blake quipped about the ironic circumstances of such a wonderful event. Mx. Genevieve brought up some interesting points about constitutional technicalities that Reggie would be sure to bring up when they met with Covington; something about allyship and unnecessary tension. Xe’d suggested that Reggie write it down; xe was one of Ray’s close friends, so xe knew about Reggie’s ADHD. It was probably a good idea, too, so Reggie took xer advice and jotted it down in his notes app. 

Then, dessert was served, and Reggie was in heaven with the mini cupcakes. They were red velvet with cream cheese frosting, and he probably ate more than he should’ve, but if he did, that was nobody’s business but his. 

That’s code for, yes, he did eat too many cupcakes. 

Soon, the dancing began. Reggie loved dancing. Didn’t matter what kind, either; he would waltz in the ballroom, jump around whilst playing the bass, twirl around the studio as Julie played the piano, or dance by himself in the middle of the night with his earbuds in. 

Reggie made his way to the open floor, cordially waltzing with random Nobles who wanted to know more about the current political situation, dancing with Alex to hype him up and reassure him everything would be okay, twirling Julie to give her a break from stuffy Nobles who kept pestering her, and letting Carlos stand on his toes as they danced, chatting animatedly about Minecraft and Star Wars. 

Carlos eventually left to go dance with Nick’s younger sister, Annie Danforth-Evans. They were the same age, and Reggie definitely didn’t miss Annie’s blush when Carlos twirled her. He grinned to himself and kept dancing around the ballroom. 

…

When the shouting started, Reggie’s mind flashed back to the day he ran away.

It was a cold, rainy day in October. Reggie’s parents had been fighting more and more for months, and it had gotten so bad that he couldn’t fall asleep at night without wondering when he would be woken up at some early hour by shouts and screams. A stray piece of stuffing floated in the corner of his eye. It was from a small stuffed penguin he’d had, one that he hadn’t seen in weeks after one of his parents’ fights. 

It was early evening, though the dark, cloudy sky and pouring rain could’ve fooled someone into thinking it was night. His parents were screaming at each other again, and Reggie was wrapped in a blanket and huddled in the corner of his bedroom, surrounded by pillows from his unmade bed, trying to focus on the sound of the rain instead of the cruel words from the living room. 

He blinked back tears and sucked on the inside of his lip. There was a swollen patch of skin next to his teeth. He never bit it, just sucked on it to give him something to do instead of trying to speak. His ear was pressed to the window, sending a numbing chill through his head and making his ear hurt, but it made it easier to let the sounds of the torrential storm drown out his parents’ argument. 

When the sound of a shattering glass caught Reggie’s attention, he jumped and whimpered, his tiny hands clutching into fists. He couldn’t take this. 

Gathering up a drawstring bag, he stuffed in the tattered blanket, a small first-aid kit, his favorite book, and an extra hoodie. It was a little small, but it was warm. He put on his bigger hoodie, a thick grey one with a big pocket over the stomach, put up the hood, and shoved earplugs into his ears. He struggled to tie his beat-up converse and peeked out the door, running out the front door when they started shouting especially loud. He doubted they heard the quick, quiet opening and closing from the entryway, but if they did, they didn’t bother investigating. 

Reggie ran. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going, but he knew the city well enough to find a familiar bench that was shaded by the roof of a cafe. He sat, grateful for the dry area, ignoring the cold wind on his nose. Huddled with his knees to his chest, earplugs making him deaf to the world, he didn’t notice the old woman handing him a small bag with a cinnamon roll inside of it until she tapped his shoulder. He jumped, flinching but quickly recovering. He mumbled a quick ‘thank you’ to her, digging into the sweet pastry. Looking back on it, it probably wasn’t a good idea to accept food from a stranger, but the pangs of hunger in his stomach said otherwise. 

He’d dozed off, using the drawstring bag as a pillow as he laid across the bench, when a gentle hand on his shoulder startled him awake. 

‘Are you okay?’ the man asked. ‘Where are your parents?’ Reggie looked down. 

‘I ran away,” he whispered. 

‘Why?’ 

‘They kept yelling,’ he sniffed, ‘and I hated it. They never stop.’ Worry and confusion and a little bit of anger showed on the man’s face, and Reggie retracted a couple inches, before the man knelt down. 

‘Is it okay if I give you a hug?’ he asked. Reggie nodded, hesitating for a moment. But when the man’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, his own skinny arms bolted up and wrapped around his neck, and before he knew it, he was crying into his shoulder, letting the man gently pat his back. 

‘Do you know who I am, mijo?’ he asked. Reggie shook his head. He looked familiar, but his head was too muddled to place him. 

‘I’m King Ray,’ he said. Reggie scrambled into a bow, but Ray’s hands immediately steadied him. ‘Everything’s okay,’ he assured him. ‘If you don’t want to go back to your parents, I could bring you to the palace,’ he offered. Reggie’s eyes lit up. 

‘Really?’

‘Yeah! You could meet Queen Rose and my daughter, Julie. She’s about your age. You’d love her.’ He stood, offering his hand. Reggie hesitated but took it, a slow smile on his face.

Ever since that day, he hadn’t heard his parents shouts, because he hadn’t actually seen them. But Ray was the best father he could’ve ever asked for. 

These furious shouts from the ballroom brought back that one memory, and even though it happened in a split second, he felt every effect in its whole, and it struck him like a well-aimed blow. But he was distracted by the sight before him.

All seven council members with daggers to their throats. 

Reggie wasn’t sure what he was feeling at that moment. It was a mix of confusion, anger, fear, and resolve, though that might’ve just been the adrenaline. 

“Like I said,” Covington shouted over the rising screams of everyone in the room, “you will either surrender peacefully to Kryptonian rule, or we will take it by force.”

More shouts echoed throughout the huge ballroom, arguments and cries of fear, anger, and betrayal. Some bakers and chefs snuck in from the kitchens and saved the council members, which was a huge relief. But when Covington pulled the small remote out of his pocket, and revealed that he was a hologram, everything silenced in Reggie’s ears.

Reggie had heard of seeing red, but this wasn’t the passionate scarlet of anger. This was pure, black, hate. Covington was threatening his people, including the people he cared most about in the entire world. Julie and Carlos, Luke and Alex, Erik, Mira, Carrie and Flynn, and the entire council.  His hands clenched into fists.

“But what about your representatives?” Reggie finally asked. Surely Covington wouldn’t be willing to kill his own people of such high ranking. 

“Acceptable losses. These aren’t actually representatives, they’re criminals who have been offered the chance of a full pardon if things don't go south. They have, however, been made very clear of the other possibility.” Reggie’s stomach dropped. Nobody deserved a death penalty, and given his impressions of Covington, he doubted their crimes were even that severe. 

“You might notice that your king is not in the room,” Caleb added, Reggie’s heart plummeted. Tears welled in his eyes.

Ray. 

“What did you do to my dad?” Julie yelled, being held back by Luke.

“He’s alive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Caleb said. “But I guarantee that, should I press this button, he’ll be in the line of fire.”

Furious shouts echoed in the huge room, and Reggie was one of the loudest among them despite his aversion to raising his voice. Covington didn’t get to waltz into Dahlia, declare war, and threaten all of these people and just get away with it. He didn’t get to threaten Reggie’s own family without facing consequences.

“Leave my people alone. Get out of our kingdom,” Julie instructed angrily, her voice clear and sharp as a dagger. “You have no place here.”

“Yeah,” Reggie interjected. “We’re not going to abandon our people, no matter how much you want us to.” It wasn’t a lie, either; Reggie was a sincere person, but he’d never meant anything as much as he meant those words. He would not give up on his people. Not ever.

And he wouldn’t give up on his family, either. 

“I truly hate to do this,” Covington said, and Reggie was pretty sure his stomach was at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. But he sprinted to the doors, hauling them open and helping people out as they ran. 

“Everyone out!” he called desperately, tears rimming his vision. “Get as far away as you can.”

“Your highness, where should we go?” Lady Sierra asked, her voice terrified. 

“Run out the front gates,” he instructed, “then through the city. It’s late, but it isn’t raining. Just be careful.” He patted her shoulder and rushed past her, picking up a small child, barely older than six, who was struggling to hold on to his mother’s hand in the chaos. 

“I’ve got him,” he called to her, calming her frantic shouts for her son. Reggie cradled him as gently as he could, bearing a few bruises as he guarded the child from the stampede of terrified Nobles. He ran as quickly as he could and handed him over to his mother, sprinting along the side of the hallway and opening more doors, yelling into the kitchens to any chefs still in there to get out. He did the same as he passed the guards’ quarters, gesturing wildly and helping people out as they jumped from their beds. 

Reggie found Carlos as he ran to the front gate, wrapping him in a huge hug and picking him up over his shoulders, his legs carrying him as fast as he could possibly run. Bounding out the front gate, Carlos over his shoulder, he made it down the hill and put him down. 

“Lead the others as far away as you can, okay?” Carlos nodded, wrapping him in a quick hug.

“I love you,” he said. Reggie nodded.

“Love you too. Now go!” When Carlos took off, Reggie bounded backwards towards the hill. 

“Run through the city,” he instructed as loudly as he could. “Just go straight but keep the palace in view, then wait for further instructions.” People nodded as they ran, and Reggie directed them in the way Carlos had gone. 

“It’ll be okay,” he assured a sobbing woman as she jogged past him. But the tremble in his voice probably wasn’t very convincing. 

Neither was the shockwave that knocked them backwards.

Reggie’s ears were both ringing and silent. He couldn’t tell when or even if he hit the ground, though he had to have, if the sudden blast of cold on his back was any indication, same with the sharp pain on his wrist. It took a moment, but he was finally able to open his eyes, quickly shutting them as a tiny piece of concrete flew over him and sliced open his forehead. He groaned, reaching up to test the wound. It didn’t feel that deep, thankfully, but his dusty fingers still came away streaked with blood. And when he looked back up the hill…

He’d been lucky enough to avoid the fire. His clothes were torn but not singed like so many others. Reggie stood shakily, jumping over bits of debris as he raced back up the hill. 

“JULIE?” he shouted, looking around. “ALEX? LUKE? ERIK?” His shouting didn’t seem to be of any use until he heard a familiar voice to his right. 

“REGGIE?” it called. His head whipped around, worsening his headache, but he didn’t care, because Erik’s tarnished but handsome face was visible across the hill. 

“ERIK!” Reggie sprinted to him, tackling him in a hug, trying to choke back his tears. “I’m so sorry, I-” 

“No,” Erik whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” Reggie nodded into his shoulder. 

“Guys?” someone called. When Reggie’s eyes snapped open to a familiar redheaded girl in a tattered aquamarine dress, a grin broke out on his face. 

“Mira!” They both ran to her, picking her up in a hug and spinning. Reggie pressed a kiss to her hair. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Erik told her, and Reggie nodded his agreement. 

“Me too,” she whispered, smudging the soot on her face as she wiped away tears. “We should look for others.” Reggie nodded, blinking back more tears as he let go, scanning around him. Dozens of battered but breathing Nobles were littered around the field, sitting, standing, and walking, helping each other. 

“Are you okay?” Reggie asked Mx. Genevieve, helping xem up. 

“I think so,” xe coughed. “My head hurts, but I guess that’s to be expected after a bomb.”

“Probably.” Reggie made sure they were steady. “Make sure you’re alright, then try to help anyone else you find, okay? I’m doing the same.” Xe nodded, patting his shoulder. 

As he searched more rubble, he found Flynn and Carrie, clinging to each other and shaking behind a huge piece of debris. They were rattled but uninjured, thankfully. And soon, he found Julie, passed out near the stairs, the violet tulle and silk of her dress torn and dirty. He scooped her up as gently as he could, brushing a curl off her face. She coughed, and Reggie half-hoped she would wake up, but she stayed asleep.

“REGGIE!” His head whipped towards the familiar sound of Carlos’s voice, as well as the voices of the other Nobles who’d escaped in time, rushing back to the palace. He gently set down Julie, leaving her with Mira, and took off towards Carlos, who jumped into his arms. 

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly. Reggie nodded. 

“I’m okay,” he confirmed. “And hey, if Han Solo can survive it, so can we.” Carlos laughed, but there were still tears streaming down his face. And they just quickened, until they heard an impossibly amazing voice behind them.

“Mijos?” Ray asked, coughing up dust.

“DAD!” they shouted, running to him, hugging him gently but tightly. Reggie sobbed into his chest. 

“We thought you were-”

“I’m okay,” he assured them. “Just a bit rattled. Where’s Julie?”

“She’s over there,” he pointed. “By the stairs.”

“I’ve been around the back of the damage site,” Ray explained, “which is why I hadn’t seen you yet. Almost everyone is okay, which is a relief, but…” he waited until Carlos had walked out of earshot before adding, “there were four confirmed casualties.” Reggie’s heart shattered.

“No,” he whispered. “No, that can’t be right, everyone-”

“It’s nobody we knew,” Ray added, but his eyes glistened with melancholy. Reggie nodded, hugging him again. 

“Can you take me to see Julie?” he asked. Reggie nodded, taking his hand and leading him to the small, clear patch he’d set her down in. Mira and Flynn were both by her side. 

“Has she woken up?” Ray asked. Reggie noticed the looks of shock on the girls’ faces, but they didn’t say anything, just shaking their heads. 

…

Finding Alex and Luke had been a huge relief, and when Julie woke up, something in Reggie’s heart clicked into place. 

There were shattered pieces of hearts throughout their family, found or blood, but those pieces combined into a beautiful mosaic of people who were scarred but lovely, bruised but kind, and loved each other with a passion and gentle nature that would bring them closer. 

----- 

Willie POV

...

“Okay,” Lilian called through the large room full of bakers and chefs, “get to your usual posts and finish up any extra dishes for tonight. Then, Alyssa, Conley, Ever, Jenna, Mark, Tori, Aaliyah, and CoCo, you’re in charge of distribution and waiting during the ball. Everyone else, be on standby, but if things go smoothly, you should be able to have an early night.” Willie smiled, but his heart fell.

He’d really hoped he’d be chosen to go to the ball and wait tables. He knew it was stupid, but he really wanted to see Alex. Even if they wouldn’t get to interact, it still would’ve been nice. And he’d spent the whole time he was baking thinking through tons of what-ifs. What if Alex noticed him there? What if they got to chat? If he was lucky, what if they got to dance? What if…

Willie shut down the thoughts. It wasn’t happening anyway. 

He redid his hair in the knot at the nape of his neck, sighing and heading back to the kitchens to make sure the cupcakes were perfect. They were, of course; he’d practiced piping cupcakes since he was little. Eva always loved cupcakes. Her favorite of his were the lemon ones, with the yellow and pink sprinkles. He’d made them on her eighth birthday, and her face lit up when he brought them out, complete with striped candles. Willie grinned at the memory of her trying to blow them out with her missing two front teeth, singing, ‘happy birthday to me, I’m a hundred and three, I’m getting tho old and thoon I’ll be wrinkly!’ It wasn’t the same song that a lot of kids sang, but it was Eva’s. She refused to sing it any other way. Of course, Willie still teased her about her then-inability to pronounce her S’s, and any time it was her birthday, he’d say ‘it’th your birthday, Eva! You’re getting tho old, thoon you’ll be wrinkly!’ It drove her absolutely insane. 

Willie missed those days. 

…

The ball seemed to be going smoothly, so Willie took it upon himself to make a batch of key lime tarts. He hummed to himself, letting his mind wander to all sorts of things (Alex, mostly), shaping the dough into the tins.

That was, until he heard the screaming. 

His stomach dropped and he dashed to the other side of the kitchen, where Alyssa was standing in a defensive position as if someone was about to attack her. Willie joined her, before Lilian snuck back in through the back door. She didn’t say a word, but pointed Alyssa to the frying pan shelf and Willie…

To the knife rack. 

Willie’s hands shook and a cold sweat dripped down his back, but he obeyed Lilian’s grim nod and took one, gripping it in his palm and watching light glint on the blade. He swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. 

Lilian led everyone in the kitchens to the door, surreptitiously walking out in a single-file line, all the way down the hall to the ballroom. Willie never knew Lilian could be so silent; her steps were completely inaudible. 

As Lilian pushed open the door, eyes flicked their way, and Willie silenced his breathing as he searched for a familiar blue-green-grey pair. And when he finally found them, they were fraught with terror, hope, confusion, and something else that Willie couldn’t quite place. Something lighter but heavier at the same time. 

Alex gave him the tiniest of head-shakes, but he was too far in to stop. 

I’m sorry, Willie mouthed. I care about you, Alex. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d been able to understand what he so desperately wanted to tell him, but Willie did see a resigned nod and a plea for him to be careful coming from Alex’s direction. 

Things seemed to move in slow motion. By some miracle, Covington, who was draped over King Ray’s throne, didn’t notice the nervous glances their way. He shouldn’t have been surprised, though; he was a very self-absorbed person. 

Then, all hell broke loose when Alyssa and six other cooks brought down their pans on the representatives’ heads at once, knocking them out cold and freeing the council members. Willie’s heart raced as he hid behind the throne as Lilian trained her knife on Covington’s back. He was astonished at how steady her voice was, how tall she stood (not just because she was over six feet; she was scarily confident). 

“Or,” she said smoothly, “you could surrender, and go back to your own country.” The knife in her hand didn’t waver, but Covington recoiled. He hadn’t heard her coming. Willie took his chance and got on the other side, his knife pointed at Covington as well. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to use it.

“Don’t hurt these people,” he instructed, proud of how clear and steady his own voice was. 

“A few bakers trying to save their precious leaders,” Caleb purred, but the malice in his voice was like venom. “How sweet. Unfortunately for you, I have this”- he pulled a small remote out of his pocket -”and while I would rather not use it, I will if I must.” Willie’s heart leaped to his throat, and he was achingly aware of the sweat on his back, the curl of hair that had loosened from his bun, the pebble in his shoe.

None of that compared to what he would soon feel if Covington pressed that button, though. Willie had never seen one before, but he knew exactly what it was.

A bomb.

The next minute was chaos. His knife clattered to the floor, heart pounding in his ears, and he jumped backwards, hating his fearful reaction. Lilian, to her credit, held her ground nicely, but the tension in her shoulders had returned in full effect, and her eyebrows creased in the middle. 

“That’s right,” Caleb said over the terrified screams, people running for the doors. “If any of you here have any sense, you’ll run. You shouldn’t have to, of course, but if your leaders continue to be stubborn, it might be for the best.” Willie shook his head. Covington wouldn’t just… do that. 

“You’re bluffing,” someone called from the audience. “You’re in this room too.”

“Am I?” Caleb challenged, and Willie could’ve sworn he’d seen wrong, but he didn’t. A flicker of transparency, proving that Covington was actually somewhere else. 

A hologram. 

“Yes,” Caleb remarked. “You probably didn’t notice my brief trip to the restroom earlier, but that wasn’t actually a restroom trip. I’m far away by now.”

“But what about your representatives?” a man asked. Willie recognized him as Princess Julie’s older brother, though he couldn’t remember his name.

“Acceptable losses. These aren’t actually representatives, they’re criminals who have been offered the chance of a full pardon if things don't go south. They have, however, been made very clear of the other possibility.” Willie’s hands curled into fists. Was he really willing to just… sacrifice those people? Criminals or not, Willie couldn’t stomach the idea of sacrificing seven people. 

“You might notice that your king is not in the room,” Caleb added, and Willie’s stomach dropped. 

“What did you do to my dad?” Julie shouted, her hands clenched in fists, shaking. Willie scanned the crowd, but didn’t find the king. 

“He’s alive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Caleb said. “But I guarantee that, should I press this button, he’ll be in the line of fire.”

Furious shouts echoed in the huge room, and Willie watched as Princess Julie walked towards the royals’ table, getting in Covington’s face. Willie ducked his head in a bow.  

“Leave my people alone.” Her voice was cold, harsh, but clear and steady. “Get out of our kingdom. You have no place here.”

“Yeah,” her brother interjected. “We’re not going to abandon our people, no matter how much you want us to.” Willie nodded

“You can’t make us surrender,” another man informed Covington. Alex nodded, standing as tall as he could, and Willie tried to do the same, swallowing the bile rising in his throat.

“I truly hate to do this,” Caleb said, without an ounce of sorrow in his voice. “But you leave me no choice.” 

“NO,” Alex yelled, and Willie’s stomach dropped. His eyes darted to Alex, wide with fear. If Alex…

Willie shoved away the thought.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” Caleb added maliciously. Everyone was running and screaming, bustling through the doors, and Willie did his best to get people out. 

“LILIAN!” he screamed, rushing to her. “Grab Alyssa and the others, then get out as fast as you can!” She shook her head. 

“No, you need to leave too,” she told him. Willie shook his head.

“I’m going to try to get people out of here,” he decided. “I can run fast, don’t worry.”

“What are the odds of getting you to listen to me?”

“Slim to none.” Lilian sighed.

“Be fast.” He nodded, patting her shoulder and letting her dash away. 

Willie sprinted to the hallway outside the ballroom, shouting for people to get out of there, searching for Alex. Hopefully, he’d run, and would be far away by the time Covington made good on his promise. 

But, of course, a familiar voice echoed through his ears.

“WILLIE!” Alex sprinted to him, and Willie’s eyes widened. 

“GO! GET OUT OF HERE!” he said, trying to urge Alex out. “You need to get out before this place blows!” Tears streamed down his face but he ignored them, running to Alex. 

When the shockwave hit him, he was a few meters away from the man he was trying to reach. Willie was pretty sure he’d phased into a different dimension when it passed through his head, leaving it fuzzy and burning but also clear, cold, and sharp. 

He felt like he was floating. Maybe he was; there was no way to know. He felt disconnected from his body. The matter making him up wasn’t really his, it was just his turn to use it before he would inevitably die and be reabsorbed into the world, waiting for some other creature to be reborn from the ashes of his demise. 

When his back hit the ground, Willie felt it, but in the way you feel a headache when you’re half asleep. He registered it, knew he was in pain, but didn’t feel it as much as he should’ve. He barely registered the bruises forming on his shoulders, the heat from the fire on his skin, the flecks of concrete bouncing across his face. He was feeling everything and nothing at all, like a frozen fire, a breeze barely detectable as it rushed against a hurricane. 

Willie caught the faint glinting of a few stars in the sky before blacking out. 

…

When he awoke, it was to shouts. They weren’t urgent, but searching, calling, asking, hoping. Blearily, he blinked his eyes open. It was still night, so he couldn’t have been out for long. What had even happened? Why was he collapsed in the middle of a field full of bits of concrete, wood, fabric, and debris?

Then, everything came rushing back in an instant.

Screams.

Knives.

The shockwave.

Fire. 

Alex. 

Willie bolted upright, ignoring the pounding headache between his temples. Standing shakily, he ran to the first person he could find, which happened to be Alyssa.

“Willie? Is that you?” she called, her purple hair caked with dirt. He nodded, tears blurring his vision as he wrapped her in a hug.

“Are you okay?” he asked. When she nodded against his shoulder, he sighed in relief. 

“Thank God. Have you seen anyone else? Where’s Lilian?”

“She’s helping pass out medical supplies to anyone who was injured,” Alyssa explained. “I’m scanning the grounds for others.” He nodded. 

“Has anyone…” he trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Alyssa looked away, nodding.

“Four people. But everyone else was lucky, as far as we know?”

“Has anybody found King Ray yet?”

“No, but we’re looking. It’ll be okay, I promise.” 

“I know, I just… This is horrible.”

“It really is,” Alyssa agreed. “I’m so sorry you had to go through it.”

“You too.”

She reached up and patted his shoulder, and Willie dashed around the grounds, searching for people, taking extra time to look for a certain blonde prince.

He helped a mother and her daughter up out of a ditch where they’d fallen after avoiding a huge concrete slab, assuring them that everything would be okay. After he’d sent them on their way down the hill, he continued his search. But no matter where he looked, he never found Alex. 

Tears blurred in his eyes, but Willie blinked them back. Now wasn’t the time to cry. It wasn’t the time to grieve someone who could be alive. 

He climbed over piles of broken concrete and stone, stamping out small fires along the way, leaving nothing but crumbling, charred ash. 

But no matter where he searched, he couldn’t find Alex. 

He doubled back multiple times, scanning the grounds and looking in every nook and cranny he could find, even going as far as to search the other half of the grounds where the bomb hadn’t affected. But there was no familiar sweep of blonde hair, no sarcastic remark, no eyes that shifted from blue to green to grey, no golden embroidery on a blue suit. 

Then, he found himself running through the gardens again, searching, and ending up all the way at the back end in the park where he’d tried to teach Alex to skate. 

Willie brushed the petals of one of the roses between his fingers, the sweet aroma floating to his head and making him dizzy. The grass was cold and wet with dew, but he didn’t care, embracing the chill rather than the fire he’d been so close to. He sank to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest.

Alex was gone.

And there was nothing Willie could do. 

He was heartbroken. He didn’t know Alex as well as he wanted to. He wanted to get to know every aspect of him, every quirk and flaw and edge, no matter what, but now he was gone, a memory floating away on a wind, gentle but cruel and unrelenting. Willie ducked his head into his knees, letting his emotions flow as he sobbed.

He was always a quiet crier, and it made him feel insignificant and forgettable. For once, though, he didn’t care. Let the universe forget him. Let him flow through the galaxy as nothing more than a speck, a dot on a timeline, a splash of color in an ever-growing sea of humanity. 

He cursed himself for falling in love so quickly, for not trying harder to get Alex to leave before the blast. He cursed himself for ever having met him at all, maybe then they’d both be alive, and it would be better in the long run. But nothing could ever be perfect. Willie knew that. So why, why did it hurt so badly when the one thing he knew would never work out ended so abruptly?

He tugged on the key on his necklace, the familiar grooves indenting his skin. He was shaking, the cold darkness like a blanket, fading as the sky gradually lightened, barely noticeable even as the sun began to paint the horizon with streaks of gold. 

Then, the impossible happened. At least, it should’ve been impossible.

He heard Alex calling his name.

He knew it couldn’t be real, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as his head snapped up, half-sure he was hallucinating. But Alex was running closer, and soon Willie was standing up, walking slowly, tentatively towards him, like if he moved too fast it might scare away the slim possibility that he was real, and not a cruel trick of the light.

It might’ve worked, too, because when he leaped into Alex’s hug, he didn’t phase through him, didn’t collapse back to the ground. Alex caught him, and Willie couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying. Probably both, he decided as he wrapped his arms tighter around Alex’s back. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered shakily, feeling Alex’s head shake over his. 

“No,” he said. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was doing, I should’ve grabbed you and ran…” Then it was Willie’s turn to shake his head. His breath hitched as he realized just how close they were. He could’ve counted the faint freckles dotting the prince’s nose, traced constellations into his skin, searched his eyes for answers he didn’t know existed. 

And then, he kissed him. 

Willie had always thought that, when people described sparks flying during a kiss, they were exaggerating, but in that moment he realized that it was incredibly, beautifully real. Sparks flew from his heart, leaving flecks of light and euphoria on his skin. Alex’s lips were soft and warm over his, slick with tears. It was broken and imperfect, but Willie wouldn’t change a second of it.

When they came up for air, Willie was smiling, but more tears were rolling down his face. 

“When you weren’t with the survivors, I-” he choked off into another sob. “I thought I���d lost you,” he finally whispered. Alex shook his head, and Willie delved deeper into the embrace, memorizing every detail that he could, the way Alex’s hands felt on his back, the fabric of his suit, how his shoulder was perfectly level with Willie’s mouth.

“You’ll never lose me,” Alex whispered to him.

A few moments later, Willie breathed back, “I hope not.” 

#bwya #bwya tag #be who you are (no compromise) #blue writes #jatp fanfic #usernell #tuserjules #tracklu #willex #juke #jatp #julie and the phantoms #julie molina #alex mercer #willie #willie nolastname #luke patterson #reggie peters #reggie molina #carlos molina #flynn #flynn nolastname #carrie wilson #ray molina #caleb covington

[rinzis]

writing about my new genshin oc??? okay?????okay!!!!!! i’m on mobile so i can’t add the read more option i’m so sorry

—

details

—

name: kiyoharu misa

birthday: august 3rd

sex/pronouns: female, she/her

region: inazuma

constellation: lunam lilia

vision: electro

weapon: sword

rarity: 5*

title: princess of the kiyoharu household, moonlit swordsmaiden (unofficial)

affiliation: kiyoharu clan, the resistance

—

synopsis

—

the princess of the fallen household kiyoharu. she carries a patterned umbrella which she is seldom seen without, and within which lies her precious katana. a gentle yet influential soul, she is well known for her impressive swordsmanship throughout the resistance in inazuma.

—

character story

—

character details

at first glance, people might not think that kiyoharu misa was anything special. seeing a young woman strolling through the land of inazuma carrying an intricate paper umbrella would not faze anyone. but, under this delicate guise, misa conceals both her dear katana and her vision.

the princess of the kiyoharu household is known to be a gentle soul who yearns for freedom from the raiden shogun and the tenryou commission. since her childhood, she has always been fascinated by the moon and its rays, a particular trait of kiyoharu descendants. misa earned herself the title of ‘moonlit swordsmaiden’ after combining her unparalleled swordsmanship with her illuminated vision.

story 1

the kiyoharu clan was once a widely respected and loved clan across inazuma. the household was known for its tendency to produce talented swordsmen who earn themselves visions through selflessness and helping others, and for this reason they were seen as high nobility. however, members of the kiyoharu household were reluctant in hiring many maids or servants - they believe that if one can be capable of harnessing the power gifted by gods through blade alone, one should also be able to cook a simple meal, or wash their own clothing. through this doctrine the kiyoharu descendants earned themselves unwavering respect from all citizens of inazuma, and even the raiden shogun herself - for a while.

story 2

descendants such as misa are taught from a young age to honour their ancestors, but also those who currently serve inazuma as well. misa excelled in swordsmanship, being able to wield a blade so gracefully to the point where it appeared as though she was dancing, using it as simply an accessory. the leader of the clan gifted to her a delicate paper umbrella, and he spoke to her these words: “do not mistake kindness for weakness. from dainty petals drip deadly poisons.”, and with that, misa understood her duty. she would protect the citizens of inazuma with her life, with her dainty umbrella and deadly blade at her side. she is seldom seen without either.

story 3

the kiyoharu clan were known best for the number of descendants who possess visions. thus, when the vision hunt decree was issued, the tenryou commission sought out every member of the household owning a vision. misa’s family would rather have died than hand over their precious visions. despite their unyielding fighting spirit, the kiyoharu household was overcome by the sheer numbers in the tenryo commission. there were supposedly no survivors, but it just so happened that the young kiyoharu misa was dispatched on a mission on behalf of the household the day it fell. the young swordsmaiden returned to her home in ruins, her whole life taken from her. she knew at that moment that as the sole descendant of the kiyoharu household, she would avenge her clan and return lost visions to those who suffer at the hands of the tenryo commission.

story 4

misa met all sorts of people on her journey through inazuma as a vision-bearing fighter, the most notable of all being the ronin kaedehara kazuha. she used to live a life of solitude in a small house near the edge of the islands of inazuma, but this life of solitude was changed upon seeing the rain-soaked samurai appear at her doorstep one evening. seeing each other’s visions, misa realised that kazuha was not a threat at all. the days they spent together inspired misa to venture out, to find the resistance in inazuma alongside the swordsman and reclaim justice for the fallen. and so, she left yet another life behind to travel with kazuha through inazuma in search of everything and nothing at all. nights of listening to the ronin’s musings and conversing under the moonlight unknowingly planted a blossom in misa’s heart, one which would remain there forever.

story 5

misa and kazuha’s travels took them all across inazuma. despite them both being wanted for their visions, the tenryo commission’s lackeys and treasure hoarders were no match for the pair’s skill in bladework. misa secretly yearned day after day for any sign of affection or mutuality from the young samurai, but as the princess of a famed clan she chose to remain composed and calm about the whole ordeal. however, when the ronin told the princess of his plan to leave inazuma with the crux fleet, he explained that he did not want to take this life from her. he confessed that his musings and haikus about the heart and its desires he so often shared with her were about her, and that his own heart would belong eternally to her. thus, he left her with a simple promise. “the wind will bring us together once again, misa. i will return home to you, and then will i forever devote myself to you. this i promise, my princess.”

the kiyoharu sword dance

those who have witnessed kiyoharu misa in battle often note how she appears more to be dancing than harshly fighting. the kiyoharu household drew its strength and style in battle from the moon and its light, and they channeled this into their blades during battle. misa’s god given agility combined with this graceful power leads ultimately to her captivating swordsmanship. with the electro imbued in her blade, misa is all too capable in taking down foes with ease. in the night hours, a stroll down to a clearing or open beach may lead you to find the princess honing her blade under the silver of the moon, with a sword that never sleeps. she is renowned throughout the resistance as one of the most talented swordswomen in inazuma.

the vision

misa was granted her vision during a particularly dangerous incident during her early training years. one fateful evening, she was out with other kiyoharu swordsmen, practicing her skills with her blade in the open country.

“lady misa, please remain here while we briefly survey the area. we have had reports of active treasure hoarders roaming this area, and we would hate for anything to happen to you at this time. we will be back shortly.”

and so, they left her on the path to scout the surrounding land. clutching the hilt of her sword, the very thought of being ambushed by grown men with malicious intentions worried misa, especially since she hadn’t obtained a vision yet. but alas, how wrong her fellow swordsmen were.

“well, what do we have here? the prestigious kiyoharu misa, is it? count ourselves lucky boys, it’s just the one we were after.”, drawled the advancing treasure hoarders.

her hands trembled on her sword. how could she possible deter these twenty, no, thirty treasure hoarders alone? glancing down at her sheathed blade, misa wondered if she’d see her family again.

no, why was she thinking like this?

steady yourself, misa. focus on your breathing. the dance will go on. your blade does not rest.

she draws her sword.

to the young swordsmaiden’s surprise, a new energy unlike anything she had witnessed before struck her senses. and so she danced, her blade piercing the air and with it bringing down the treasure hoarders in quick succession. but she could only go on for so long.

panting, misa retreated towards the edge of the river. the men relentlessly kept on coming, and she knew she was almost completely spent. her legs and hands quivered, and her mind raced with prayers to the goddess baal. with a small breath, she spoke these words:

“archons, guide me. i beg, lend me your strength.”

a faint crackling filled the air, before a tremendous burst of silver lightning struck the ground before her. the sword in her hands glowed a pale purple, and it was then that she realised the archons had answered her prayers. wielding this newfound power, she swung her blade with a new fervour.

twenty, no, thirty treasure hoarders lay at the princess of the kiyoharu household’s feet. the chime of a small ornament hitting the ground was the only sound after the crackling died down. at long last, kiyoharu misa’s vision had been granted to her by the gods. holding the electro vision in her hands, she whispered these words:

“the dance will go on.”

—

voice lines

—

hello

“i’m kiyoharu misa, nice to meet you! l-lady misa? oh no, please — there’s really no need for the formalities. i’m just as ordinary as you are. say, how about we travel together for a while? i’m sure your stories are bound to keep me entertained on our arduous journeys.”

chat: urgency

“a storm is brewing… let’s keep moving.”

chat: resting

“you’d like to rest? alright, want to share a quick meal?”

chat: sword

“i should really polish my sword soon…”

when it rains

“my my, it seems the heavens really have opened. let’s find shelter quickly, i’d hate to continue travelling in this weather.”

after the rain

“the lingering scent of the rain is one of my most favourite smells… for me, it heralds a fresh start. well, come on then! shall we head off?”

when it snows

“hmm… i really do enjoy the snow. especially when the moonlight casts a glimmering sheen over the world, enveloping inazuma in a soft silver. i hope we can witness it together sometime.”

when the wind is blowing

“i have a friend who adores the wind. he left some time ago, but i know he will return home to me one day. sometimes i wonder if i can hear his voice catching on the breeze, lines of poetry drifting along with it. hey, don’t give me that look! we’re just… uh… friends...”

good morning

“[sigh] i’m really not much of a morning person. i’m certainly not on my best form in the late morning hours… oh, you’re ready to leave already? r-right, i’ll be ready as soon as possible!”

good afternoon

“hmm, i’m feeling a little hungry… would you like to grab a bite to eat? no, it’s alright - there are inns up ahead that know the resistance. we’ll be just fine. and, if not, we have our blades. heh.”

good evening

“the setting sun is particularly pretty this evening. once the storm has fully settled, i hope to see the true beauty of the inazuman skies once again. i will see that vision to the end.”

good night

“you’re heading to sleep? alright, sleep well. me? well… the moon is my friend, i suppose. a little sword dance under its light helps me retain my focus. i won’t be too long, don’t worry.”

about kiyoharu misa

“my umbrella? oh, it was a gift from the leader of the kiyoharu household when i was born. i had it altered to accommodate the length and width of my sword - see? though it appears to be but a dainty paper umbrella, what lies within is a retribution sentence. it is my will given form.”

about us: kiyoharu origin

“my title as princess of the kiyoharu clan is something i will carry with me forever. despite the unjust fall of my household, i will bring back its honour. the raiden shogun’s vision hunt decree stripped my family of their lives, thus i swear i will reclaim justice. for them, and for the future.”

about us: kiyoharu motto

“the motto of the kiyoharu household is: “with grace and with fortitude.”, and i channel this saying into my sword whenever i draw it. it is the foundation for the kiyoharu way of life.”

about us: sword art

“ah, i see you have taken an interest in my fighting style. for me, fighting with a sword should not just be about the battle. it is an art, and i find myself overindulging in the grace and fluidity of swordsmanship all too often.”

about the vision

“my vision? i see it as a way of showing solidarity against the oppressive raiden shogun. i do not wish to hide that which is so dear to me, and that which forges my identity. this vision is my symbol of strength, and the tenryo commission who seeks it will be met with my unyielding blade.”

something to share

“i’m not sure how long you will be in inazuma for, but traveler - one day, i’d like to take you to a festival here. they are truly wonderful, and members of the resistance always find ourselves sneaking in to witness them as well. ever since i was young, i’ve loved them so much, and i’d love to share this memory with you as a reminder of your time in inazuma.”

interesting things

“traveler, is it true that in liyue there are gods that walk amongst the people? huh… adepti you say… so, they just co-exist with mortals peacefully? you’ve met them?! wow… it seems i underestimated your power! just what else have you witnessed since being in teyvat…”

about kazuha: relationships

“kaedehara kazuha? ahem… well… yes, i suppose you could say that we are… lovers, of sorts. on his final night here, he left me with a single promise. i often spend nights staring up at the moon with him in my mind. i will wait for him, for as long as it takes, i know that i will see him again one day. i know that he will return home soon.”

about kazuha: poetry

“kazuha would often recite haikus to me as we’d live together when he was here. i remember him arriving at my doorstep, drenched in rain from head to toe, and i hadn’t the heart to turn him away. he stayed for a while, and after a few days i decided to risk it all for him. the bond we share… is unbreakable. if you see him, let him know that i am waiting for him.”

about kamisato ayaka

“i have a lot of respect for the princess of the kamisato clan. she conducts herself in a light i admire greatly, and she and i are close friends. her swordsmanship is just as impressive, and i would love it if we could spar once more as we used to. perhaps i will visit her soon…”

about yoimiya

“yoimiya? oh, of course - festivals in inazuma aren’t complete without a firework show organised by her. i have also heard her skills with a bow are unique, to say the least. paired with her passion for fireworks, i assume the combination work… interestingly in battle.”

about sayu

“hm? sayu… you mean the ninja who resides in the forests? i can’t say i’ve seen much of her… which is odd, considering she wields that great claymore…”

about gorou

“oh, gorou! i know him very well, actually. he was one of the first people i befriended as part of the resistance. he is a sound fighter, and i believe he can achieve great things. perhaps i can see him again soon.”

about the raiden shogun

“the raiden shogun… her despicable vision hunt decree… the tenryo commission… i detest it all. to see so many people’s dreams stripped, to see the colour fade from so many precious hopes… i will see to it that this is all restored. i cannot sympathise with a god who robs her people of their dreams.”

more about kiyoharu misa i

“you’d like to know more about me? i’m flattered. i know that your journey through inazuma won’t be easy, so please don’t hesitate to drop by every once in a while. my blade never rests, after all.”

more about kiyoharu misa ii

“the carvings on my sword are most intricate. a swordsmaiden’s weapon is her will. i find myself staring at the moon night after night, and the patterns on my sword are a tribute to the power it lends me.”

more about kiyoharu misa iii

“you want to know about my title? well, moonlit swordsmaiden refers to the way i utilise my vision. the light of the moon reflects through the electro element, and i believe that through this combination i can convey the power of the resistance.”

more about kiyoharu misa iv

“i’m an only child, so the fate of the kiyoharu clan rests in my hands. traveler, i believe that through knowing you i have become a better person. i hope that you will visit inazuma once again.”

more about kiyoharu misa v

“here, this is for you. it’s a charm made from pure sea glass. the way the sun and moonlight reflects through its unique colours is a rare sight to behold. i suppose this is a thank you gift, for everything we’ve been through together.”

kiyoharu misa’s hobbies

“my hobbies? well, in the late night and early morning hours, i enjoy heading down to a secluded beach and basking in the moonlight. those hours are the perfect opportunity to practice swordsmanship, and the art of sword dancing too. besides that, i suppose i enjoy embroidery too, although i’m not particularly good at it…”

kiyoharu misa’s troubles

“i often worry about the other members of the resistance. i find myself questioning as to whether they still have their visions, or even their lives. on top of that, i hope that one day i will be reunited with my lover… i pray that he too made it out safely.”

favorite food

“my mother used to make the most takoyaki. my family weren’t so insistent on having maids running around when we could cook everything ourselves, so i would always snack on my mother’s dishes. even today, the taste of takoyaki brings back vivid memories of my mother.”

least favourite food

“honestly, i’m not much of a picky eater, but i’m not too fond of anything containing fish eggs…”

birthday

“happy birthday! it’s a special day for you today. is there anything in particular you’d like? no, don’t be silly, of course i’ll get it for you! seeing as you’ve helped me this far, it’s only right that i give something back to you! on top of that, if there’s anything you ever need at all, i’ll be sure to help you out, friend.”

feelings about ascension: intro

“my blade only grows stronger. let’s continue working hard.”

feelings about ascension: building up

“how to describe this feeling… lightweight, but more powerful. the dance will go on.”

feelings about ascension: climax

“with each passing day, my blade grows keener. the moon seems more radiant than ever before.”

feelings about ascension: conclusion

“i believe i owe you a great thanks. the moonlight that rains down on the world will forever be in your favour, traveler. both you and i will improve leaps and bounds from here on out.”

addition to party

“are we heading off?”

“alright, ready when you are.”

“it’s time, let’s go.”

elemental skill

“will of my sword!”

“shrouded in moonlight!”

(convergence) “cut them blind!”

(convergence) “beams, converge!”

elemental burst

“kiyoharu art: carver of radiance!”

“dance of death.”

“face my blade!”

fallen

“i thought… we’d meet… again…”

“friends… i’m sorry…”

“no… i wasn’t… done…”

—

talents

—

normal attack - kiyoharu sword art

perform up to 5 consecutive attacks with a sword.

charged attack: consume a set amount of stamina to unleash a more powerful attack, dealing physical dmg to enemies.

plunging attack: plunges from mid-air to strike the ground below, damaging opponents in an aoe upon impact.

elemental skill - remnants of moonlight

tap once: kiyoharu misa dashes quickly forwards, dealing electro dmg to enemies in her path. she leaves a thunderblade at her starting and end point of her dash.

tap again: the thunderblades converge with kiyoharu misa as the focal point, creating a triangular zone of convergence. enemies within the zone of convergence are dealt electro dmg and are knocked up. a mark of radiance is applied to enemies within the zone of convergence.

if the skill is not reactivated, the two thunderblades will converge in a line after 4s. marks of radiance last for 12s.

elemental burst - kiyoharu art: carver of radiance

kiyoharu misa leaps into the air, before plunging down and dealing a powerful slash to enemies, dealing massive electro dmg. for 3s after her slash, thunder strikes will crash down on enemies who are marked by mark of radiance, dealing extra electro dmg.

passive 1 - swordsmaiden’s revenge

enemies affected by a mark of radiance will take 15% more damage from kiyoharu misa’s normal and charged attacks.

passive 2 - thundering retribution

kiyoharu misa’s crit dmg is increased by 10% for 5s after a zone of convergence is activated.

natural passive - lightning clarity

all party members’ crit dmg is increased by 10% when kiyoharu misa is in the party.

—

constellations

—

constellation 1: tenacity of lightning

the duration of thunderblades on the field is increased to 6s, and the duration of marks of radiance on enemies is increased to 16s.

constellation 2: shredding thunder

enemies marked by marks of radiance have their elemental res decreased by 20%.

constellation 3: roots of kiyoharu

the level of kiyoharu art: carver of radiance is increased by 3.

constellation 4: fatal reunion

if there are more than 5 enemies within the zone of convergence cast by remnants of moonlight, the cooldown is decreased by 3s.

constellation 5: swordsmaiden’s unwavering will

the level of remnants of moonlight is increased by 3.

constellation 6:

kiyoharu art: carver of radiance deals 50% more dmg to enemies previously affected by electro.

—

appearance

—

kiyoharu misa is a young woman and is of average height, with light brown hair, tied half up in a braided bow and then tied at the very bottom. she has bangs which frame her face. her eyes are deep gray-purple, and she has a small scar across the bridge of her nose. her outfit is coordinated with white and lavender colours, and her paper umbrella is also patterned with lavender coloured lightning and flower patterns.

i’m horrible at art so here’s a fun picrew of misa …… this isn’t what she’d wear but it’s the closest thing to what i was imagining ig …… also the band aid is supposed to be her lil scar LOL

#finally dragged misa out of the drafts #zizi’s ocs

[heyitsani]

I Keep My Eyes Wide Open All the Time Chapter 7

Word Count: 11,458

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character death, Mentions of past rape/non-con (eventually)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne/Jon Kent

Notes: I’m sorry!  Just it’s really sad, so I’m sorry.  There’s some cute fluff in there, but it’s still really really really sad.

If you have not read When You Move I Move, this one won’t really make much sense.  So you can read that here: WYMIM

You can also read this chapter on AO3 here

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Damian hesitated outside of the small shop Victor had directed him to as Madame Xanadu’s storefront and home.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he was expecting to happen in there, but he was nervous all the same.  This woman knew secrets that Victor and his father had been unwilling to share.  His father had said there was no point in burdening his heart and Victor had simply said it was not his secret to share.

So that was how he ended up making his way into the lower levels of the city with Victor just behind him.

“You do not have to do this,” the guard told him, looking at him from his post near the door.  “Your father is not wrong.  You do not need this burden.”

“And what would you do in my place?” 

Victor was silent for a beat before sighing, nodding his head in agreement.  “I, too, would want to know.  But knowing what the truth is, I would also wish I didn’t.”

“You are entirely unhelpful.”  Victor shrugged before reaching out and opening the door for Damian, taking the decision out of his hands.  With a glare and then a sigh, Damian slipped into the shop and straightened his spine in preparation.

“Your Highness,” a gentle voice greeted him.  Turning he spotted the woman with pale skin and kind eyes.  “I did wonder when you would make your way to me.  I could not see that future very clearly.  But at this time, it does make sense.”

Damian considered her closely, frowning at her words.  She didn’t look exactly like he had imagined, but he wasn’t really sure what he had been expecting to begin with.  He could feel the power coming off of her though and wondered if everyone could feel how strongly it resonated with her.  Glancing around the room, he took in the various potions and vials.  There an entire wall covered with powers and other items, that he assumed she used to make her goods.  A small portion of wall was comprised of books and Damian was curious what was written within their leather bounds.

“Have you come to me for a reason, Your Highness?”

Clearing his throat, Damian pulled his eyes away from her belongings to look at her again.  “Yes, I have come to discuss my father.”

“Hmm,” Xanadu hummed, nodding sadly.  “The country will be in heavy mourning sooner rather than later.”  Damian’s jaw clenched.  He knew that, but no one had been willing to say it up until now.  His grandfather had been silent on all of it and the doctors had tried to give them hope.  But Damian knew the truth.  He had been watching it happen for years.

“It is a broken heart, isn’t it?”  The woman hummed again, and Damian felt as though a hand had gripped his heart.  “Ever since that day, he seemed to be only a shade of the man he was with Ser Jason.  He did try so hard to keep it hidden.  To remain strong.  Those nights we sat together were not enough to quell his pain.”

“It never is,” she confirmed.  And Damian had figured.  Though he had never addressed the man as such, he had always thought of him as another father.  And it had been difficult to light his pyre and mourn him.  To this day, his heart still ached with that loss.  But he knew it was so much more painful for his father.  Damian had never known that kind of love, not yet at least, but he had seen its rarity and beauty through the two of them.  “But this is not why you have come to see me, is it Your Highness?”

“It is not,” he confirmed.  “Do you have somewhere more private we can discuss this?  Or is it safe here?”  She tilted her head and he waited, watching her watch him.  Then she waved him forward and he followed her through a curtain covered doorway into a back room. 

The first thing he noticed was the smell of fresh rain.  It was so striking and so surprising, it made him pause.  It was all he smelled despite the two separate tables covered with various substances and mixing bowls.  The next thing he noticed was the fact that he could no longer hear the outside world.  It was silent.

“An enchantment,” Madame Xanadu explained when he turned questioning eyes onto her.  “The scent can be too strong most of the time and the sounds distracting.  No one can hear us either.  So, you may speak freely here.”  She gestured to a stool as she sat on another one.  He nodded and took a seat, back ramrod straight as he steeled himself.  “Now, what is it you wish to know?”

Taking a deep breath, Damian let it out slowly.  “My mother,” he started, watching her closely.  “She had a part in Ser Jason’s death.”  The woman only nodded.  “Did you?”

“No,” she said simply. 

“But you knew of her involvement in his death?”

“Not until after it had happened.  She went outside of our city in order to seek the help she needed.  I do not have the kind of power required and none, including myself, in Gotham who do would have done what she wanted.”

Damian considered that a positive at least.  His father and Ser Jason were at least loved enough to inspire that kind of loyalty. 

“And before you ask, Your Highness, I do not know who she got to do her bidding.  I would have told your father if I had.  They, too, should be brought to justice.”  Sighing, Damian slouched slightly in defeat.  He thought maybe he could make something right in a situation where he had no control.  “Do you want to know the whole story of your mother’s deeds?”

“I do, if you would be willing to tell me.”  The woman regarded him for a moment before nodding and gesturing for Damian to sit on one of the stools.  Once he was comfortable as he could be, she went to her table and began sorting through some dried plants.

“Your mother came to me when you were about the age of eleven,” she talked as she worked with her items and Damian’s eyes tracked her movements with thinly veiled curiosity.  “Though disguised, I am skilled at the art of aura reading and hers was always quite…demanding, I suppose you could say.”  That seemed about right.  The woman had been known for her headstrong nature.  “But I played her game and listened to her woes.

“She spun a tale of a man she wed and gave an heir, a man she had fallen in love with but who had not fallen in love with her.  She made mention of a man her husband loved but could not be with for family and duty.  She said she knew her husband could love her if only this man were not around.  That was when I told her I would not kill for her, no matter what she paid me, and she asked for a compromise.  She asked for a curse that would destine them to always be within reach of the other, but never be allowed to really be with one another.”

Damian gripped the edge of the seat he was on and clenched his jaw.  He knew his mother was mean spirited, but he had never known her to be outright cruel.  She had asked to strip two men who loved each other of the chance to love each other freely and wholly.  “And you did what she asked?”

“I did,” she looked up at Damian with a sad nod.  “I did because I knew she was desperate enough to go to another if I did not.”  His shoulders lowered as he sighed and nodded.  She certainly would have.  “I gave her what she wanted with a stipulation attached to it.”  Straightening his spine back up, Damian held his breath.  This sounded like hope.

“I told her I would make the curse for her but should one of them fall before the age of ten and six that the curse would be broken and they would be reunited.” 

Furrowing his brow, Damian tried to decipher that.  “Reunited as in the next life?” 

“That is not for me to say.”

“But you do know?”

“I do,” she confirmed.  “But as I told your father, they have many lifetimes of suffering between them before they will finally be allowed to be together.  From that day and all lifetimes after it.”  It was a minor comfort to know she had at least seen it.  He was sure his father had felt the same.  “I did do your father a favor when I told him of his wife’s hand in his lover’s death.  I gave him a potion to take that would separate the thread between him and your mother until the lifetime they are to be reunited.”

“And he took it.”  It wasn’t a question.  Damian knew there would be no chance his father would not want his former wife’s presence gone from his world for as long as possible.  But that left his existence in question then.  “What does that mean for me?”

Xanadu didn’t answer immediately.  Instead she placed her various plants she had been grinding down into a fine powder into a vial before adding some liquid to it and stirring it together, whispering words that seemed to ignite whatever was in there and turned the liquid from clear to blood red.

“For you, my future king,” she said as she capped the vial with a small cork, “it means that you will not be of his blood.  But your presence is in as many of his lives that I have been given insight to.”  She rounded the table and Damian slipped off the stool to stand when she stopped in front of him. 

“Will they remember?  Will any of us remember?”

“To an extent all of you mortals remember your previous lives.  Perhaps not always evident, but they linger just below the surface of your minds.”  The act of keeping herself out of the “mortals” comment did not surpass him, but he knew better than to question.  Instead, he thought about the pain his father and Ser Jason were to face with lifetimes of loving each other but not being able to be with one another.

“Can you make us forget?  Can you spare them the pain that would come with the curse?”  He questioned her, though part of him wondered if she already knew he was going to ask.  “Please, I’ll pay you whatever you require.  Please do not make them carry that pain into each life.”

She held out the vial of blood red liquid and Damian hesitated a moment before he took it into his palm.  It was warm to the touch and the power within the glass made him clench his jaw.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew this was the answer he sought.

“Your payment?”

Holding up a hand, Madame Xanadu shook her head.  “I require nothing.  But be sure you give this to him before you are crowned.  I do not know how much longer he will be with us.”

Clenching his hand around the vial, Damian gave her a bow.  “Thank you.”  Her soft laughter caused him to jerk upright in surprise.

“I apologize, Your Highness.  I just see so much of your father in you.  Bowing to a lowly healer, imagine.”  She chuckled as she moved toward the entrance that would take them back out to the main shop and Damian followed.  “Before you are crowned, do not forget.”  He gave a nod as they stepped into the main room and toward the exit where he knew Ser Victor would be waiting.

“Thank you for telling me, Madame.  You owe me nothing, but now I owe you much.  Please call on me should you find yourself in need of my service.”  He gave another bow, much to her apparent amusement, before stepping out of the store.  “Come, Ser Victor.  I desire some tea with Father.”

The soldier looked at the prince before looking back to the shop in confusion.  Damian raised a brow in question and watched as the man shrugged and gestured for Damian to lead the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Richard, honestly,” Damian could hear his Uncle Timothy berating his father on the other side of the room, but he tried to block the two men out as he continued to run his quill across the parchment.  He had started and stopped the letter to Jon far too many times now and had decided to simply write whatever came to mind and hope that it made sense to the other man.

He had been putting off requesting the other man’s presence since finding out about his father’s illness, but he wanted the older man there when he was crowned in less than a week’s time. 

“Nephew, please.  I require your assistance…”  His uncle’s voice came closer until he was standing beside where Damian was seated.  When his words trailed off, Damian glanced up and found the man’s blue eyes on the letter. 

“What do you require of me, Uncle?”  Damian asked, not bothering to hide the contents of the letter.  He did not for a moment think his uncle wasn’t aware of Jon’s feelings and what had transpired between them when Jon had shown up before abruptly leaving the same day.

The man looked at him with a sort of understanding in his eyes and Damian held his breath for a moment.  “He will not hesitate to come once you ask him to.  But I do not know that he will make it in time for the crowing, Nephew.  Not if your rider does not wear his horse out.” 

Damian nodded, knowing the rider needed to leave soon if there were to be any hope, but he didn’t say anything.

“Now, I cannot for the life of me get your father to eat.”  Damian frowned and looked over at the man.  His father was wrapped in a warm blanket despite the warm early summer day and him being on the window seat, basking in the sunlight.  “No matter what I try, he tells me he is not hungry.  I do not think he has eaten since yesterday morning.”

“No, he probably hasn’t,” Damian spoke softly.  “And I do not know that I will be able to influence him any more than you can, Uncle.  But I shall try.  Might I finish this letter first?”  His uncle smiled and squeezed his shoulder before walking back over to where the king was seated. 

Damian watched them for a moment longer before turning back to finish the letter begging Jon to come.  Father is sick and I am to be crowned early and would like you there scrawled across the page, conveying his pain and desperate need for his best friend.  He did not mention the change of law his father had done for them or the fact that he had figured out his own feelings for the man.  He simply requested his presence in one of the most painful and trying times of his life.

“I shall be back in a moment,” Damian called to the two men, who nodded in response, before hurrying out of the room to find his usual rider.  He spoke quickly with the man and requested he take the fastest horse, even if it were one of Damian’s or the king’s.  The man agreed and accepted the letter before turning to head back to the study where his uncle and father waited.

“Your Highness!”  Frowning, Damian turned to see his rider rushing back toward him with someone just behind him.  “Perhaps you might give the letter to Prince Jon yourself,” the rider teased, handing the letter back just as Damian realized it was Jon who was there.

He stood frozen with the letter in hand as his rider made his exit and Jon closed the remaining distance between them.  There were no words, no vocal greeting, and no warning before Jon was engulfing him in a tight embrace.  Damian didn’t hesitate in returning the embrace, sinking into the familiar feel of Jon’s lithe form and the familiarity of his scent.  He took the comfort he didn’t allow others to give him.

The silence stretched between them but felt comfortable and familiar.

But eventually Damian’s sense of duty took over and he pulled back to look at Jon.  Though having hit his final growth spurt and gaining his final inches that put him above his father’s height and just below his grandfather’s, Damian found he still had to look up at Jon.

“What…how…?”  Damian tried to think of the right question, but he wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask. 

“Your father wrote to me,” Jon told him, placing a hand on Damian’s cheek.  Damian’s eyes slipped shut at the feel of his thumb brushing against his cheekbone.  How had he never noticed this…this energy between them?  How had he never felt this charge to his heart that felt so familiar?  Had he been feeling it all this time without realizing?  Perhaps that was why it didn’t surprise him.  “Damian…”  Blinking his eyes open, he looked up to see the sadness he felt reflected in Jon’s eyes. 

Raising his hand and gripping Jon’s wrist, Damian turned his face and kissed the inside of Jon’s wrist.  “Thank you for coming,” he whispered against the delicate skin there.  Turning to look back at Jon, he smiled softly at the look of shock that had taken over his features.  “The rider who led you here was on his way to deliver you a letter,” Damian told him, holding up the parchment folded and sealed with his personal seal and green wax.  “We have much to talk about, but it was I who required your strength this time.”

“You have it,” Jon said immediately, no hesitation as his eyes searched Damian’s.  And Damian knew he was probably desperate for answers, but he also knew he needed to get back to his father and uncle before his uncle came searching for him. 

“I need to return to my father and our uncle.  Will you join us?  Perhaps your presence will do him some good.”  Jon nodded but Damian could see the question in his eyes.  “After…we will talk.  I promise.”  Though it wasn’t much, it appeared to be enough for Jon.  Sighing, Damian pulled Jon’s hand away from his face and laced their fingers together before leading them back to the study where the other two men were waiting.

“Jon!”  His father called out as soon as they stepped into the room.  Damian watched his uncle rush to help his brother stand to greet the prince but Jon released Damian’s hand and rushed forward.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he chided the older man, pushing him to sit back down.  The king laughed softly but followed the silent command.

“Nephew,” Damian’s uncle greeted Jon with a hug before sending Damian an amused look.  “That letter worked more quickly than I thought it would,” the man teased Damian and Jon let out a laugh of his own when he glanced over at the other prince.

“Yes, well,” Damian cleared his throat and moved over to his father’s side.  “I am famished.  Shall we call for lunch?”  He gave his father a look that was met with amused annoyance, but a nod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you,” Damian said quietly to the servant who had brought the tray with tea for himself and Jon to share while they had the talk Damian had promised they would.

“Do you require anything else, Your Highness?”  Damian glanced at Jon who was seated across from him in the study.  The man smiled but shook his head. 

Damian looked back to the woman and shook his head as well.  “Please tell Ser Kyle not to allow anyone to disturb us unless it is about Father.”  The woman looked at him sadly, but nodded her head before bowing and exiting the room.  He kept his eyes on the door for a moment before leaning back in his chair with a sigh and looking toward Jon.  He wasn’t surprised to find the prince regarding him closely, but he didn’t have the energy to try and discern what exactly the man was thinking.  “I am glad you have come,” he broke the silence.

“I would have rushed if your letter had been the first to reach me, to be sure I arrived in time.”  And Damian knew he would have.  It was why he had written to begin with.  Damian would have done the same, had done the same.  “I find myself unable to say no to you most of the time.”

“I can say the same in regard to you,” Damian admitted, a small smile slipping into place.  “I can say much of the same things you seem to be able to say about me.”  Jon’s eyebrow raised and a curious look took over his features, but he remained silent.  It was as if he knew Damian needed to be able to get this out in his own time.  “I should have sent word to you the day you left.  I should have called you back then, once I had come to understand what it was I felt toward you.”  Perhaps then he wouldn’t have felt so alone when he learned it was only a matter of time before he lost his father. 

He watched Jon lean forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.  Damian tracked the movement with interest.  “And what have you come to understand?” 

“That you are the very air I breathe,” he spoke softly, but with surety.  This was his moment to prove to Jon that it wasn’t a passing fancy and that no one had influenced him to feel this way.  That he was being more honest and open than he had ever allowed himself to be.  “That the mere thought of you looking at someone else the way you look at me would be as painful as if you were to steal my heart from my chest.  I do not know how I missed it and I cannot for the life of me figure out for how long I have been blind to that…look upon your face.”  He watched Jon’s smile grow, a laugh slipping easily from his lips and Damian felt his own smile grow to match it.

Sitting up straighter, he looked at Jon earnestly.  “I am in love with you Prince Jon of House Kent.  I am in love with you and would be foolish to allow you to ever think I am anything less then completely lost without you.”  And though he saw it coming in the tensing of his body, Damian still allowed himself to be somewhat surprised to have Jon pushed out of his seat and pull Damian out of his.  There was a split-second moment where Jon smiled down at him, open and happy, before he pressed his lips to Damian’s. 

And though there was so much going on in his world, he allowed Jon to pull him into this moment of oblivion.  He allowed himself to get lost in the feeling of Jon’s soft lips and warm body pressed against him.  He allowed himself to enjoy the shiver of excitement he felt at the feel of Jon’s hand gripping the small hairs at the back of his neck.  He let his own hands grip Jon’s hips, pulling him even closer.

“I didn’t want to hope,” Jon whispered, pulling back just enough for them to breathe and look into each other’s eyes.  “I didn’t dare hope you would come to this conclusion because I did not think I could survive it if you didn’t.”

Damian raised one of his hands and brushed his fingers along Jon’s cheek before letting his hand cup the side of his face gently.  “How could I feel anything else?  How could I do anything but love the one person who is not obligated to love me, but does so freely and willingly?”  Jon’s eyes turned watery and his laugh was enough to send Damian’s stomach tumbling and a terrible fluttering to overtake his chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian remained still while Stu finished the final alterations to the royal robes and just watched the man work.  He listened to him go on about his grandchildren and how he was fairly sure this would be his final crowning ceremony he worked on because his old bones ached.  Damian laughed and told the man he would outlive them all, but the older man just waved off the words and gathered up his things to put back into his case.

“I do believe my work is done,” the man said, looking over his work with a nod.  “You will make a wonderful king, Your Highness.”  Damian looked at himself in the looking glass and swallowed down the tears that tried to push forward.  “I do wish it were under better circumstances, but I am certain he has no doubts about what great things you shall accomplish.”

Looking down at the man, Damian gave a weak smile.  “Thank you,” voice hoarse and tight.  The older man just smiled, gave his cheek a pat and grabbed his things.  Soon enough Damian found himself alone in the room just off the main hall where the ceremony would be taking place.  He could hear the servants bustling about the halls as they prepared for tomorrow and all Damian wanted to do was curl up in his father’s bed and give into the tears that so desperately wanted to fall.

“Look at you,” a voice broke through his inner turmoil and Damian turned quickly to find his father in the doorway.  He was surprised at how healthy the older man looked, but Damian wasn’t fooled.  He knew Madame Xanadu had visited him the day before.  He knew the healer had probably given him something to help him get through the next few days.  “I thought we might have a talk since neither of us is needed elsewhere until dinner.”

Nodding, Damian moved over to sit on the plush bench in the room.  He watched his father shut the door behind him and move over to sit down next to him with a tired smile.  Whatever the woman had done for his father might have those who did not know him fooled, but the rest of them could tell.  They could see the weariness and pain in his eyes.  The pinched look of his smile that was usually so open and bright.  He was a fraction of the man he used to be, the man Damian worshiped and strove so hard to be like.  The best kind of man that he could only hope to make proud one day.

“Are you nervous for tomorrow?”  His father questioned, watching him closely as he always did when he wanted to be sure Damian was telling him the truth.

But Damian didn’t need to lie about this.  “No, I have spent too many years with this as my goal.”  That seemed to shift something in his father’s eyes and Damian wished he had chosen his words more carefully.  “I only mean to say that Mother was so focused on preparing me for the crown it would be surprising if I felt unprepared to take the throne.  So no, I am not nervous to be crowned.”

“I sense a but coming.”

“But I am nervous to not have you here to look to when I am faced with something I am not certain how to handle.  Father,” Damian leaned forward and gripped the older man’s hands and looking him straight in the eye, “is there nothing to be done?  I know Madame Xanadu called upon you yesterday.  Surely there must be something she can do.  All that power and she cannot find a way to heal you?”

The king remained silent for a few moments before sighing and Damian knew.  He just knew he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.  “I do not want her to,” his father admitted, and Damian pulled his hands away as if he had been burned.  “Please do not be angry with me, My Son.  I couldn’t stand that.”

“Then why?  Why would you be perfectly fine with leaving your family behind before your time?  How can you be okay leaving me behind?”

“Because I know you will be okay.”  Damian shook his head as tears burned his eyes.  Tears he had only allowed to fall a small handful of times in the private company of his father or Jon.  No one else had been allowed to see them fall thus far.  “I am broken, Damian.  I have been for some years now.  Even before I lost your father.  I tried to shield you from so much and there is much you have no inkling of that has done nothing but worn me down over the years.  When Jason was here, I had someone to share those…woes with.  But since he has been gone, I have not wanted to burden anyone with that weight.”

“But it would not be a burden for your family.  Please, Father,” Damian begged.  He closed his eyes when one of the king’s hands came up and cupped his cheek.  “Please.”

“I would stay for you if you asked it of me and truly meant it.”  Damian’s eyes snapped open and his brow furrowed.  Was that not what he was currently asking his father?  Was that not exactly what he had been saying?  “You do not mean it.  I know you think you do, but I know your heart.  I know you would regret asking this of me in a few years’ time and that guilt would eat away at you.”

Damian didn’t say anything, but he processed what his father was saying.  Would he feel that way?  Would he feel guilty for asking the man to stay just so he would have him around?  But that just spurned more questions.  Did his father not deserve to rest?  Did he not deserve to have the weight of all he had endured over his lifetime lifted so he might start anew?

“I see the truth in your eyes.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Damian blinked back the tears that still threatened to fall.  “Do you know when?  Do you know how soon you will leave us?”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at his father when the man sighed and let his hand slip away from Damian’s cheek.  “I do know, and I will not tell you.  I do not want you focused on that.  I want you to enjoy what we have remaining.”

That was fair.  Even Damian knew he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else if he knew.

“I know it is not fair,” his father spoke softly, and Damian was surprised to see tears brimming his father’s eyes.  “But I am glad to leave you with someone like Jon to love you.  I am glad I was able to remove the obstacle keeping you from being with him.  And all future rulers, whoever they may be.”

Leaning forward, Damian embraced his father tightly and closed his eyes tightly.  “Thank you for being the best man I have ever known.  Thank you for protecting me and loving me as you have.  I can only hope that my children will feel as loved as you always allowed me to feel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had never noticed the intricate details carved into the wood of the doors to the grand ballroom where his crowning was about to take place.  Dragons and knights, crowns and scepters all seamlessly coming together as they surrounded the crest of Gotham.  He wasn’t sure how he had never noticed it, but it was hard to miss as he stood waiting for his entrance to be announced to the full room.  A room filled with royals, commoners, and everything in between.  And the courtyard of the castle was filled with even more, the sounds of them excitedly waiting for him to step out to greet them as their king.  His father had made a passing comment about how he was fairly certain Damian had drawn a larger crowd than Richard himself.

Damian didn’t believe that for a moment, but he appreciated the effort.

“It is time, Your Highness,” Ser Kyle said as he came up beside the prince.  Damian looked over at him and nodded.  “Good luck.”  And with that the two doors were opened to reveal the inside of the ballroom.

“His Highness, Crown Prince Damian Wayne of Gotham,” the Herald called out as Damian steadily made his way down the center aisle of the room with his head held high.  He made eye contact with a few familiar faces before his eyes landed on Jon, who was beaming from his spot next to his father, the former king of Metropolis.  With a slight quirk of his lip, Damian turned his eyes to the two people waiting him at the top of the small set of steps that led to the rostrum. 

The Archbishop stood with his hands clasped in front of his familiar gold and white robes, embroidery of Wayne blue making intricate patterns along the thick material.  The man was one Damian had been familiar with since he had been the one who had crowned his father and grandfather.  And Damian knew this would likely be his final coronation.

Next to him, his father stood in his royal robes that were not so dissimilar to the ones Damian wore currently.  Though his black and blue were a contrast to Damian’s chosen green and black.  The wink of red clasping both of their cloaks in place at the base of their throats was a decision made just between the two of them.  A nod to the man who should be there with them but was taken from them.  Damian let his eyes slide up to the crown adorning his father’s head that would soon be resting on his own head and steeled his spine.

He came to a stop at the foot of the steps that would take him up to where the two men stood with the all too familiar throne between them.  The throne that, like the crown on his father’s head, would soon be his.  Though, thankfully, not something he would have to sit on all that often.  Only for ceremonial and formal affairs, two things that happened particularly sparingly in their kingdom since his father had taken the crown.  From what his father and most of the others said, his grandfather had been much more formal with his proceedings.  Damian was not yet sure where he would fall on that scale.  He could see the appeal in formalities, but he also enjoyed the more friendly state of things he had experienced over his eighteen years.

“Prince Damian, please join us,” the Archbishop said as Damian gave the formal bow of respect.  He took the stairs on steady feet and head held high.  He could see the look of pride on his father’s face and it just steadied his resolve even more.  “Please place your hand on the Book of the Law of Old.”  Raising his right hand, Damian set it carefully on the book of the original laws of their people.  Recite after me.”  And so he did.  He repeated the promise to protect the people as though they were his own blood.  He repeated that he would be just and rule with the knowledge that the entire kingdom was important and not just the ones who could contribute.  He promised to care for the elderly and raise up the poor.  He promised to follow the laws laid down by the rulers before him.  And lastly, he promised to put Gotham before his own pride always.

“Damian of House Wayne,” his father said in a strong voice, “I grant you this crown before your time as my own time has come to pass.  I bestow upon you the faith of the people and the love of the kingdom.  I crown you in good faith that you are the rightful ruler of the people and will love them above all else.”  Damian looked at his father with a nod before turning to face the crowd that was watching them.  He sat down on the throne and waited for his father to place the crown upon his head. 

“I, Damian of House Wayne, accept this burden and promise to wield my power justly and wisely.  I thank the people for trusting me with this crown and acknowledge that they are the true power in this kingdom,” he spoke calmly, letting his voice carry.  He watched his father descend the stairs and join the rest of his family.

“All hail Damian, King of Gotham!”  His father called out, smile wider and brighter than Damian had seen in a long time.  The rest of the crowd followed suit and called out the hail, but his eyes remained on his father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His room was dark and silent when his eyes opened, unsure of what had startled him into waking.  But there was something, an irritation on his mind that demanded his attention.  Sitting up, Damian tossed the thin sheet covering him to the side and turn to allow his legs to hang over the side of the bed.  Scanning the room, he couldn’t find anything that would have caused him to awaken.

But he knew there was a reason.  He knew it.

So he slipped out of the bed and grabbed his robe, wrapping it around himself and making his way over to his door.  With a firm tug, he pulled it open and was surprised to find Ser Kyle there with his hand raised to knock.

“Ser Kyle!”  Damian exclaimed, sounding as surprised as he was sure he looked.

“Your Majesty, your father is calling for you.”  His tone was grave, full of sorrow and Damian hated it.  He hated that he knew exactly why his father would summon him in the middle of the night.  But he also knew this was exactly why he had awoken.  He was to get his final goodbye.  “Your Majesty?”

Swallowing, Damian gave a nod of his head and followed the knight through the halls toward his father’s rooms.  They had moved the man from the King Chambers the day before the coronation despite Damian having told them it was unnecessary.  But his father had only laughed at him and told the staff to continue on.

“You are to be king, you must uphold tradition and move into the King’s Chambers.  I will not hear otherwise.  And neither will your grandfather and we all know how he can be about tradition.”  His father had whispered the last part to him, but the effect was ruined with the laughter in his voice.  And though Damian knew he meant what he said, he also knew his father did not want to die in those rooms.  He would be selfless enough to not ruin Damian’s future room with his death. 

And Damian had appreciated that.

“Will you inform Prince Jon,” Damian requested when they had reached his father’s room.  The knight looked uncertain but gave a nod.  “Tell him to remain where he is, but inform him of what is happening.”  With a bow, Ser Kyle gave him one last look of sympathy before he turned and headed toward the guest rooms where Jon and his father were staying.

Taking a deep breath, Damian gave a gentle knock to the door as he pushed it open and slipped inside.  He took in the sight of Healer Thompkins as she spoke softly to his father, but her lack of equipment just served to confirm his suspicions. 

This was the night he would lose his final parent.

“Your Majesty,” the healer greeted him softly, bowing as well as her older body allowed before straightening and moving forward to his side.  “I can see in your eyes that you understand why you have been summoned in the middle of the night.”

Damian nodded.

“I do not know how much longer, but he is certain it is to be soon.”  The tears burned his eyes and he welcomed them like an old friend.  “I am sorry I could not prevent this from happening, My King.”

Damian shook his head and took a deep breath.  “He wouldn’t have allowed it,” he spoke softly, glancing over at his father who was watching the exchange from his place on the bed.  “This was his wish.”  The woman gave him a sad smile and nodded.  “Thank you for caring for him as well as he allowed.”

The woman gave another bow before she glanced back over to the former king and then headed for the door.  Damian waited for the click of the door closing to sound before he closed the remaining distance between himself and the bed where his father laid.

“My Son,” his father’s voice sounded weak, as though it had been unused for quite some time.  It was a stark contrast to how it sounded just at dinner earlier in the evening.  The former king offered up a hand and Damian immediately latched onto it with both of his as he sat on the edge of the bed.  “I do not have much left to say to you except that I am so very proud of the man I see in you.”  He watched his father take a few stuttering breaths and Damian clung to his hand more tightly, silently willing the older body to take strength from his younger one.  A few beats passed before it looked like his father would be able to speak again, but he remained silent and simply smiled at Damian. 

Damian didn’t deny the tears that came forward, not this time.  There was no reason to hide them, no reason to be strong in this moment.  So he let them fall with a quiet sob as his chin dropped to his chest.  Saying goodbye to Ser Jason had been hard, but he had already died.  He had never thought about how it would be to watch the life of someone he loved slipping away from them with each passing moment.  And now that he was facing one of those moments, he wasn’t sure he could actually watch it happen.  His entire body begged for him to flee, to run away and not stop until this moment could no longer haunt him.  But his heart told him he would suffer this a thousand times over because it was his father.  It was the one man who had always done everything he possibly could for Damian.  The one man who had put him above all others and never expected him to be more than he was and loved him as he was.

And now he was expected to go on without that love in his life.  He was expected to just move forward and be the king the country needed when he just wanted to be an eighteen-year-old who needed his father.

“Please Father,” he sobbed, falling forward so that his forehead was pressed into the older man’s ribs.  “I am not ready to say goodbye.  I have not…please…”  He begged, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was begging for.  Because he knew he had relented to his father’s wishes of this being his time to go, but he still found himself unable to say that final goodbye.

Damian turned his face to looked at the man when a hand fell heavy onto his head.  “You are more than what she wanted you to be, Damian.  Do not ever forget that we choose who we are to be.”  Damian nodded through his tears, his cheek rubbing against the sheet covering his father’s body.  “Be strong and just like your father but remember to love those around you even when they seem to fall short.”

“I will.  I will strive to be like you.  To be kind and generous.”

“Strive to be like you, My Son.  Be who you are in your heart.  I would not leave if I thought you were not perfect just as you are.”  Damian wanted to argue, but he remained silent.  He was not his father, but he could strive to be no matter what the older man was saying.  “Marry Jon, okay?  Do not wait, do not hesitate.  Give him the ring in the top left drawer of my desk in my study.  It was one I gave your father many years ago even though we were not as fortunate as you.  To be able to be with the one you love.  Do what I could not.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I love you more than words could ever say.  Remember that in the remainder of this life and all the ones to follow.”

Turning his head to bury his face in his father’s side again, Damian’s sobs came out in gasping breaths.  “I love you,” he cried into the sheet.  “I love you so much.”  He didn’t know what else to say.  He didn’t know how else to vocalize his devotion to the older man.  The man who had given everything to make sure Damian grew into a good person.  Who had sacrificed his own happiness for so many others.  The man who had changed so many lives at the sake of his own.  “Tell Father I love him as well,” he whispered, turning to look at the man, but finding his eyes closed.

Pushing up, Damian looked down at the man and took in the stillness of his body.  He looked where the hand that had been resting on his head had fallen onto his father’s chest and noticed the lack of rise and fall.

“Be at peace,” he choked out, dropping his chin to his chest again as the tears came in earnest once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jon’s presence just behind his right shoulder was solid and steady, something Damian appreciated greatly in the moment because he was certain he would have collapsed already without it.  The crowd that had gathered for his father’s pyre was no surprising in the least and far larger than the one they had done for Ser Jason.  Not because his father was more loved, but because he was a great king and news of his death had drawn in villagers from all over the kingdom. 

“How am I to address these people here?”  He asked Jon quietly, glancing at the man briefly before looking back out to the crowd.  The Archbishop was giving his blessing over the body before it was time for Damian to speak and light the pyre.  But he had no idea what to say.

“Just say what is in your heart, Love.”  Just like that.  Such a simple concept but his heart was too heavy for simple.  “They are hurting, and they just want to hear that their emotions are valid.  You are their king, but they all understand that you were also a son.”  Glancing over at Jon, Damian furrowed his brows, but Jon just raised a hand and let it fall heavy, comforting, onto the back of Damian’s neck.

“Grandson,” his grandfather’s bulking form came up beside him.  “I can make the speech if you need.”  It was the out he craved, the excuse to keep his grief quiet and only shown to those who knew him best.  But he could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind that this ceremony was not about his grief.  That he would have the raising of the effigy with just the family for that.  This ceremony and the Feast were about the people.

“No,” Damian looked over at the older man.  “It is my duty, and he would not want me to turn my back on the people.”  His grandfather regarded him carefully before giving a nod and stepping back over to where Selina and the other members of the family were standing.  He could see his uncle watching him, eyes sad in a way Damian had never seen.  But Damian couldn’t focus on that right then.  He had to focus on the task at hand.  He had to focus on putting the hearts of the people at ease when his own heart was in turmoil.

With a glance from the Archbishop, Damian gave a bow of his head in respect before he stepped forward.  The movement pulled Jon’s hand away from his nape and Damian immediately missed the comforting warmth of it, but instead of rushing back like he wanted to he pushed forward.  He could do this and then Jon would be there at the end.

Stepping onto the raised platform, Damian looked around at the faces of the people who had gathered.  As far as he could see, in every possible space between here and the walls, there were people who had loved his father.  People who had known him for the good man he was, the kind and giving king.  The man who had loved his people enough to walk among them as if it were nothing.  The man who had raised his son to regard the people in the same manner.

Glancing back at Jon, he clenched his jaw when the man simply held a hand over his heart and gave him a nod.  But he still had no idea what that meant.  Turning back to look at the expectant faces below him, Damian shook his head.  “I have not a single idea of what to say to all of you who have gathered here.  I am not eloquent like my father was and I am not experienced the way my grandfather is.  I wish I could say beautiful words that would warm you in this cold time, but I do not know them,” he admitted, his voice carrying over the crowd as they stood silent.  He could see the looks of confusion, but there were also looks of understanding.  And he could latch onto those.  “My father was the best man any of us have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  He was kind and he was generous, but more than that he was love.  And he had so much love to give.  Not just to me or the others in our family, but to each of you as well.

“I cannot convey how much he cared for each and every one of the citizens under his rule.  He sacrificed so much so that he could be the ruler you, the people, needed.  Most of all, he gave to everyone without expecting the same in return,” Damian swallowed, taking a split second to push back the tears that were trying to force their way out.  “The loss we have suffered is great.  And I know it might seem like things will never be the same or that we have lost…some of the color in the world, but we will recover.”  He lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

Reaching for the torch that Ser Roy held in hand, Damian stepped up to his father’s body and looked at the familiar face.  “We can never replace someone like Richard of House Wayne, there is no one else who can come close to the kind of man he was.  He is irreplaceable.  But his influence and his teachings live in all of us and through that we can strive to be just as good and kind as he was.  We can strive to be what he knew we could be.”  Lifting the torch high into the air, Damian looked out at the people who watched him with rapt attention.

“To King Richard, the best of us all.  May we spend each day striving to be the person he believed each and every one of us could be.”  May I be the man he thought me to be.  With one last deep breath, Damian looked back down to his father’s resting form and touched the torch to the hay lining the pyre.  He took a moment to watch the fire burn before he turned and found his grandfather already waiting to take the torch from him.

The man gave him a firm nod, his face a mask of strength that his eyes did not fall in line with.  Through them Damian could see the grief the man was feeling, laying his eldest son to rest far too soon.  But there was an unspoken understanding between them.  A father and a son, both grieving one of the most important people in their lives.

With the torch passed, Damian made his way back to his spot, Jon immediately slipping his hand into Damian’s.  And though it was not necessarily proper, Damian couldn’t find it in himself to care.  Instead he focused on the comfort it provided as he watched the pyre light consume it’s victim.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cold air hit him like a slap to the face, but it was a feeling Damian welcomed in that moment.  The ballroom was crowded with citizens and travelers who had come to join in the Feast of the Seven, and the warmth had been almost suffocating.  The spirit of the room was joyous, as a Feast always should be, but he had been struggling to really feel the same joy the others were experiencing as they celebrated his father.  So, he had excused himself from the room and stepped out into the gardens, a place his father had loved and often could be found tending despite them having staff members to do just that.

Tilting his head back, Damian took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the cold air chilled his lungs before he slowly released it.

“Your Majesty,” a voice greeted him, causing Damian to stiffen as he opened his eyes and looked behind him to see who had joined him.  He watched the woman give a bow but something about her presence told him he should probably be bowing to her.  He took in her raven hair, cut so it just brushed the tops of her shoulders, reminded him of the color of his father’s hair.  And though it was fairly dark with only a few torches lighting the walkway, he could see the deep blue, almost purple color of her eyes.  But it was the jewel resting just above the space between her eyebrows that really caught his eye. 

Even from where he stood, he could feel its power.  And the blood red color of it said it wasn’t gentle power either.

“Do I know you?”  He questioned, eyes narrowed.

The woman shook her head and took a few steps closer.  “I am called Raven,” she told him.  Damian’s eyebrows raised at the strange name and lack of any kind of surname or name of her family attached to it.  “I came here seeking Madame Xanadu and she pointed me in your direction to deliver my knowledge.  I had thought it best to have a familiar face give it to you, but she disagreed.”

At least her connection to the healer of the city explained why Raven did not bother with any family names or titles.  But he couldn’t imagine what kind of information she might have that the healer thought he would like to know.

“What knowledge have you come to bestow on me?”  He kept his tone even, not sure he should trust this woman or not.  But he knew his guards were close and he was more than capable of defending himself.  But if she were a practitioner like Madame Xanadu then he wasn’t sure anyone would be able to save him.

“I have traveled from Nanda Parbat with news of your great grandfather’s rule.”  Damian sucked in a surprised breath and waited, knowing this was important.  That despite evidence, it was Ra’s who had ordered him to be killed.  “Your grandmother’s sister, Nyssa, has dethroned him and he has been laid to rest.  The magic keeping him alive has been destroyed.”

Considering what this meant, Damian felt a small weight lift off his chest.  A weight he hadn’t noticed sitting there under all the other things burdening him.  “So the order…”

“The one for your life?”  Damian nodded.  “Nyssa has rescinded it and sends her word that peace remains between Gotham and Nanda Parbat for as long as she is on the throne.”  A folded parchment was held out to him and he immediately recognized the seal of Nanda Parbat.  He took it from her and held it by both ends, looking down at it.  “Nyssa has also destroyed the legacy of Ra’s by removing the title of Ra’s Al Ghul and stating that the ruler shall hence forth be called by their own name or one of their choosing.”

“Was a strange tradition,” he muttered and was surprised when a laugh slipped past Raven’s lips.  She seemed equally as startled and quickly cleared her throat, but it was too late.  Damian was smiling and had relaxed the remaining tension in his shoulders.  “Thank you for bringing such glad tidings during such a…”  He looked past her toward the crowded ballroom and frowned.

“Yes, I was saddened to hear of Richard’s passing.  The few times I had spoken to him, he was exceedingly kind.  The world shall be a little darker without his aura to brighten it.”  Looking back to Raven, Damian nodded sadly.  “You have such an aura as well, Your Majesty.  Do not let this dim it.  He would not want it.”

“No, I do not think he would.”  Glancing down at the parchment in hand, Damian sighed before looking back to Raven but jerked when he found himself alone.  He glanced around, finding no trace of the woman at all.

“Damian, there you are!”  Jon’s voice called out as he came walking out of the ballroom.  “Damian?  Is everything all right?”  He asked as he neared the younger man, but Damian wasn’t sure how to answer him.  Did he tell Jon about Raven?  Would he believe him?  And even as he thought it, he knew it was ridiculous to question.  Of course Jon would believe him.

“I just had a strange encounter with a practitioner who knew Father,” he explained, looking up at Jon with wide eyes that expressed his bewilderment.  Holding up that parchment, he showed Jon the seal.

“That is Nanda Parbart.”

“It is,” Damian confirmed.  “She brought tidings from Queen Nyssa and word that the order for my life has been lifted.”  Jon’s eyes widened in shock before a relieved smile broke out over his face.  And soon enough, Damian found himself encased in Jon’s arms.

“That is wonderful news!”  And it was, it really was.  “A bit of light in a dark time.  I wish I could thank this messenger,” Jon said as he pulled back and glanced around as if he would spot Raven where Damian had been unable to.  “I do believe we should drink to this news, yes?”

Looking at the letter again, Damian found himself nodding and feeling a bit lighter.  “Yes, a drink would be suitable.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun was warm for the time of year, but Damian found himself welcoming it.  And enjoying it at the insistence of Jon, who had shown up at his study with Titus and a basket full of food and a blanket.  And though Damian knew he had much more he needed to get through before Council later in the day, he allowed Jon to pull him away from it and take him on a picnic.

Now he found himself relaxed on the blanket while Titus and Jon chased each other around the field and for the first time in the weeks following his father’s death, he felt joy.  The sound of Jon’s surprised laugh when Titus tackled him into the tall grass brought an easy smile to his face that didn’t feel as though it was a lie or a façade.

“What?”  He questioned when he found Jon regarding him from where he was still seated in the grass, Titus having gone off to chase a bird.  He watched the older man shake his head as he stood and brushed himself off.

“I think that is the first smile I have seen on your face since…”  He made his way over to the blanket and dropped down next to Damian, not bothering to finish his sentence.  But Damian understood all the same.  “It has been missed,” he commented softly, raising his hand and brushing the backs of his fingers across Damian’s cheekbone.

Ducking his head at the affection from Jon, Damian attempted to get his emotions under control.  But the warmth that had bloomed in his chest at Jon’s words and meaning was something he had yet to get used to and it caught him off guard every time.  It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, but it was not something he had yet come to terms with.  And Damian was not good with things that he was unsure of how to handle.  Not when he was still struggling to get out of the constant vigilant headspace his mother had conditioned him to be in.

“I have been meaning to ask you something,” Damian changed the subject, thankful for the understanding he saw on Jon’s features when he looked back up at the man.  The single raised brow gave Damian to go ahead to ask what he had been thinking of.  “How long will you stay?  I know you mentioned new duties for Metropolis, but I was not certain when they might pull you away.”

He watched Jon smile easily as he leaned back onto his hands and stretched his legs out in front of him.  “Trying to be rid of me, Your Majesty?”  And though Damian knew it was a joke, he still cringed at the playful accusation.  “I am only joking, my love.  But I hadn’t really contemplated it yet,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulder.  “Kon told me he would send for me if he required me, but Timothy told me it was not likely it would happen.”

Damian considered the answer and what exactly it could mean for them.  If Jon’s duties were easily set aside, then it was likely he wouldn’t be missed if he remained away for a long period of time.  At the same time, Damian felt a little bad about keeping him from his family for as long as he had.  Even if his father had been here for the coronation and then the death of the former king.

“Is there a reason you ask?”

Shrugging a shoulder, Damian tried to think of an answer that didn’t give his personal desires away.  Did he admit to Jon that he never wanted the older man to leave?  Did he tell him that it was his intention to have him stay at his side forever?  “I was simply wondering…” He attempted to say, but even in his own eyes it sounded like a lie.  And the snort Jon proved that the other man didn’t believe it for a moment. 

But instead of calling Damian out on his lie, Jon simply gave him a knowing smile and got back to his feet.  He called Titus over as he stepped away from the blanket and took a large stick the dog had managed to find and threw it out into the distance for the dog to chase.  Damian remained in his spot, watching the two repeat the action over and over and allowed his mind to drift. 

He allowed himself to think of what it would be like to have to bid farewell to Jon when he finally needed to return to Metropolis for his duties or family.  He thought about the loneliness that would surely follow in his absence and how he might handle that.  But then he thought about what he could do to ensure that Jon stayed.  He thought about just asking him outright to remain at his side and abandon his duties back home.  Though Damian knew that unless he had a good reason, Jon would never just abandon his family.  And Damian could never ask that of him just because he would miss the other man.  But still the thought of going about his daily tasks without Jon, without the unfailing support the other had been providing since his arrival, struck him hard and fast in the heart.  The dread was almost palpable.  He could practically taste it.  And that frightened him.

When had he become so dependent on Jon?  When had he lost his ability to stand on his own?

When you fell in love.

The thought appeared out of nowhere and the voice in his mind sounded just as his father would have.  And the more he considered what his father might have to say about this moment, the more sure he was of exactly what his father would tell him.  He knew precisely what his father would offer up as a solution.  But were they ready?  Was he ready?

Looking over to Jon, where he stood laughing as Titus jumped in an attempt to get the stick out of Jon’s hand, Damian knew the answer.  How could he consider any other option? 

And he was reminded of the band he had taken to carrying around in his pocket since retrieving it from his father’s study the morning after he passed.  The silver band with an intricate pattern and red jewels was one he had remembered Ser Jason wearing but hadn’t know his father had given it to him.  But Damian had admired it then and he would feel even stronger about it should it rest on Jon’s finger.

So, he pushed to his feet and made his way over to where Jon stood waiting for Titus to chase after the stick he had just thrown.  And when Jon turned to look at Damian as he approached, the smile Jon gave him further solidified Damian’s resolve.  And he didn’t hesitate once he reached the other man, taking his face between his hands and pressing their mouths together. 

It wasn’t their first kiss, it wasn’t even close to being their first at this point, but it was their first that had such a big meaning behind it.  At least to Damian.  And he tried to convey that meaning to Jon through the kiss, through the press of his body against Jon’s.

“What was that for?”  Jon’s voice came out breathy, quiet as he gasped for air when they had separated by mere inches.

“Marry me,” Damian responded.  It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t memorable, but it was honest.  “Do not leave me ever.  Stay with me in Gotham and help me look after my kingdom.  Make it our kingdom.”

Jon’s face went from dazed to shocked as Damian spoke and the words sunk in.  “But…”  Damian allowed him to work through whatever it was he was thinking, waiting.  “What of the law?”

“Before Father passed, he had it abolished.  He asked the Council, based on what happened with him, Mother, and Ser Jason, to abolish it and allow all rulers to marry the person they see fit and not someone who would just be an heir producer.”  Jon’s eyes went wide, and Damian tried not to laugh at the fact that he could basically see the thoughts running through his mind.  “He did it for me, for us.  Before he died, he told me to find this,” he said, pulling back to grab the ring out of his pocket.  He held it up in his palm and looked from it to Jon.  “He told me to find this and to give it to you.  To have what he was not able to.  To marry someone he loved.”

He watched Jon’s blue eyes look down at the ring, a look of familiarity passing over his features, before he looked back to Damian.  “This was Ser Todd’s?”  Damian nodded.  “You trust me with this?”

“I trust you with my entire world,” Damian admitted.  “Will you trust me with yours?”

“I already do,” Jon laughed and quickly pressed his mouth back to Damian’s in a quick, but heated kiss.  “My best friend, my partner, my King, my…husband,” he whispered against Damian’s mouth and the younger was certain his heart was moments away from beating out of his chest.

“Is that a yes?”

“How could I say anything but?”

#past lives au #jaydick #DamiJon #jondami #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #anikah writes

[mel-at-dusk]

SEX, LIES AND CHEAP COLOGNE: AN ORAL HISTORY OF ABERCROMBIE & FITCH’S SOFTCORE PORN MAG

The story of how an oversexed, strangely intellectual magazine by a polo shirt brand completed the improbable task of changing the course of sexuality in America’s malls, homes and moose-print boxers

Abercrombie & Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries was a shrewd businessman, but he didn’t always make the best decisions. Between the blatantly racist T-shirts he signed off on, the child thongs he called “cute” and the series of public statements he made admitting that his brand intentionally excluded anyone who wasn’t “cool” and “good-looking” with “great attitudes and a lot of friends,” it’s no wonder that he spent the majority of his reign at Abercrombie in hot water. (For the uninitiated, Abercrombie made what fashion writer Natasha Stagg calls “sexy versions of the clothes kids already wore to school: T-shirts and jeans, stuff you could toss a football in or throw on the grass if everyone decided to go skinny-dipping.” More importantly, as she writes in her book Sleeveless, it was “for those who were casually peaking in high school.” It, meanwhile, peaked in the 1990s.)

An exception to Jeffries’ questionable CEO-ing would be A&F Quarterly, the glorious, controversial and questionably pornographic “magalog” he created at the height of the brand’s popularity in 1997 in order to connect “youth and sex” to its image. Woven in amongst surprisingly thoughtful interviews with A-list humans like Spike Lee, Bret Easton Ellis, Rudy Guiliani and Lil’ Kim was a cascade of naked photos from photographer Bruce Weber which showed nubile youngs in various states of undress. They were frolicking, they were caressing and they were deep in the throes of experimenting with types of sex that — at the time — had never been portrayed by mainstream brands.

With issue titles such as “XXX,” “The Pleasure Principle” and “Naughty and Nice,” the Quarterly dove headfirst into the risque. During its 25-issue run between 1997 and 2003, it printed interviews with porn star Jenna Jameson, offered sex advice on how to “go down” in public and suggested — on multiple occasions — that its readers dabble in group sex. One issue published an article on how to be a “Web exhibitionist,” another featured a Slovenian philosopher barking orders to “learn sex” at school and big-dick Ron Jeremy even stopped by to talk about performing oral sex on himself and using a cast made from his own penis.

The actual Abercrombie clothing being modeled in the magalog was an afterthought, appearing in Weber’s photos as more of an impediment to nudity than an actual, purchasable item. The whole thing was, as journalist Harris Sockel put it in an Human Parts essay, “20 percent merch, 20 percent talk and 100 percent soft-core aspirational porn.”

None of this would have been vexing had a more adult-oriented brand been the ones hawking it, but Abercrombie & Fitch was — and still is — marketed toward suspiciously toned teenage field hockey players named Brett. Though he might have looked like a man in his big salmon-pink polo, Brett was but a child. Abercrombie was fond of saying its clothing was for college-aged clientele, but we all knew where its real haute runway took place — inside the crowded halls of every middle school in Ohio.

The Quarterly, too, was intended for college kids, and to prove it, Abercrombie shrink-wrapped it in plastic and sold only to those over 18 for $6 a pop. You could buy it as a subscription, of course, but it was more commonly found in-store, nestled alongside A&F’s cargo shorts and “thongs for 10-year-olds,” a questionable placement that prompted concerned parents, conservatives and Christians to accuse Abercrombie of sullying their children’s minds with impure thoughts.

As such, the Quarterly became the subject of a mounting number of boycotts, protests and controversies that some believe were responsible for its eventual demise. By the time circulation peaked at 1.2 million in 2003, it had been denounced by organizations like the National Coalition for the Protection of Children and Families, Mothers Against Drunk Driving, the American Decency Association, Focus on the Family, the National Organization for Women and, of course, the Catholic League.

Yet the outrage against the Quarterly was matched — if not exceeded — by its cult following, who found its frank portrayal of sexuality to be transcendent. Journalists, artists and the teens whose hands it fell into adored the magazine, and its rarity — plus its utter absurdity — makes it a sought-after collector’s item to this day.

At the same time, few people know about the Quarterly and even fewer realize what it meant to the generations of young people discovering themselves and their sexualities through the unlikely lens of branded content. As journalist Emily Lever puts it, “There’s no weirder way to learn about sex than to pick up a magazine by Abercrombie & Fitch — a brand for hot, mean mostly white kids who shoved you into lockers — but, I guess I’ll take it?”

This is the story of how an oversexed and strangely intellectual magazine by a polo shirt brand completed the improbable task of changing the course of sexuality in America’s malls, homes and moose-print boxers.

AND IN THE BEGINNING, THERE WAS ASS

The first issue A&F Quarterly debuted in June 1997. With 70-ish pages of full-color hard bodies, it was relatively tame compared to later editions, but it quickly became popular when Abercrombie’s nubile clientele realized it was a paper-backed portal into an adult world of sex, nudity and the kind of unbridled sensory hedonism their parents warned them about. As rumors of its legend began to spread, people began to wonder: What the hell is A&F Quarterly, and why is it printing ass for teens?

Emily Lever, journalist and chronicler of the Quarterly’s absurdist philosophical leanings: A&F Quarterly was an in-house magazine put together by Abercrombie & Fitch that published a who’s who of literati to accompany their images of young adult and teen bodies in order to hawk expensive distressed jeans and polo shirts to kids who would shove you inside a locker.

Alissa Quart, author of Branded: The Buying and Selling of Teenagers and director of the Economic Hardship Reporting Project: From what I recall, it had a Bruce Weber-y vibe — gorgeous young men and teens unapologetically objectified, a leering retro pin-up element, also sort of like the highly stylized, sexed-up, nostalgic 1980s and 1990s black-and-white Guess ads. Men — boys, really — were photographed without their shirts, elaborately muscled abs, sometimes naked.

Harris Sockel, in his Human Parts essay: [It was] Playboy crossed with Fratmen.com and a bit of Field & Stream. The Quarterly made my hormones do a kick line across my frontal lobe. I wanted to nibble the soy ink for snack until sunrise. To absorb it so deeply I sweat grey drops onto my pillow. To rip a page from that issue and fold it into a paper flower and stick it all the way up my ass until it came out my mouth.

Lever: Yeah, it was hot. But it was also extraordinarily literary. It featured big-time thinkers, writers and philosophers — stuff that was supposedly intended to expand your mind. It was way too high-brow for the average Abercrombie teen, and its existence made almost no sense given what the brand represented.

Savas Abadsidis, editor-in-chief, 1997-2003: There was nothing else like it. We were the first mainstream brand to combine playful, irreverent, intellectual content with sex and youth in this beautiful, high-art magazine format. Was it controversial? Sure. But it made the entire country take notice.

What they didn’t necessarily see, however, was what was going on behind the scenes. Not only were we the first brand to do this kind of advertising, we were also the first big brand to normalize gay culture for a mainstream audience, expose America’s youth to some of the era’s most progressive thinkers and use our platform to address sexuality in a useful, hands-on way. And you wouldn’t necessarily expect that from Abercrombie. That’s what made it so cool.

It all began in 1996. I was 22 and working at a temp job for a prominent New York architect who happened to be friends with Sam Shahid, a big-time creative director for Calvin Klein, Banana Republic and later, Abercrombie & Fitch. He was looking for an assistant. I had taken a deferment to go to law school and was looking for a job for that interim year, so I applied. I got in.

It was a horrible gig at first. Just awful, Devil Wears Prada-type stuff. I left crying many nights. But I had two things going for me. The first was that Abercrombie had a really small office in the West Village. Mike Jeffries, the president and CEO of Abercrombie, used to come in. He wore flip flops, had a desk made out of a surfboard and began each sentence with the word “Dude.”

Mike Jeffries, ex-CEO of Abercrombie & Fitch, speaking to Salon in 2006: Dude, I’m not an old fart who wears his jeans up at his shoulders.

Abadsidis: I didn’t know it at the time, but Mike was gay (I wouldn’t find out until much later). I think that was part of the reason why he and Sam — who was also gay — took me under their wing. They actually didn’t realize that I was, too — it’s not like we all sat around a bonfire at Fire Island and talked about how us gay guys were infiltrating Abercrombie — but that dynamic dovetailed nicely with Bruce’s photography for both the brand and the Quarterly, and it certainly set the tone for what was to come. I was grateful to get what amounted to an unofficial apprenticeship from both Mike and Sam, and eventually, they had me doing much more involved tasks than I was hired to do.

One of them was sitting in on important meetings. At the time, Mike was inviting all these different editors from magazines like Interview, Men’s Journal and Rolling Stone to come in and brainstorm ideas for what the Quarterly could be, but their ideas were flat. They felt like ideas coming from 45-year-olds writing for college kids, and I could tell Mike was getting frustrated by how little they seemed to grasp what he wanted.

One day in a meeting, one of the magazine editors threw out an idea. Without even acknowledging him, Mike turned to me. “Savas,” he asked. “What do you think about that?”

My mind raced — I could tell he was testing me. If I flubbed the answer, I’d be done. I briefly considered censoring myself, but then I thought better. What did I have to lose? I was young. Surely, I’d find another summer job. “I don’t think it’s a great idea,” I told him.

Apparently, that was the right answer. Mike practically threw the guy out of the room.

After that, I started to think more about what I’d want to see out of a magazine. I was just out of college as a French comparative literature major at Vassar, and I was super into that sort of 1950s-style Esquire journalism with the dapper closing essay. I was deep into The New Yorker, Interview Magazine, 1990s-era Details, MAD Magazine and 1980s pop star mags like Tiger Beat, too — those were all an influence. I also loved philosophy, social theory and comics. And graphic novels. You know — college stuff. Then it hit me: If the magazine was for people like me, why not get actual college kids — not 50-year-olds — to create our content?

I suspected my ideas were what they were looking for and knew they’d look fresh compared to what other editors were throwing out, so I decided to take a risk. I got up at 2 a.m. and typed out a 20-page proposal for what I thought the Quarterly should be. The next morning, I faxed a copy to Mike. I left another on Sam’s desk.

About a (very anxious) week later, Sam called me into his office and told me to pick up his phone. Mike was on the other line. As I reached for the receiver, he leaned over to me and said, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

I didn’t even have time to comprehend what that meant before Mike’s voice was in my ear. “Congratulations, kid,” he told me. “You get one shot.”

Shortly thereafter, I was promoted from Sam’s assistant to the completely green, 23-year-old editor-in-chief of the Quarterly. It was a Jerry Maguire moment. I was thrilled and terrified at the same time.

They gave me a month to put together a staff and get the first issue out. Bruce Weber was named as its exclusive photographer — he’d already been shooting ads and campaigns for Abercrombie — and Sam was the creative director. As for me, I knew I’d need an editorial staff, and stat.

HOLY SHIT, THERE ARE NO LIMITS

Abadsidis quickly throws together a team composed of two college buddies, Patrick Carone and Gary Kon, who he describes as “pretty funny and stuff.” Carone became the only straight guy on the editorial side. Kon is Jewish and gay. The three of them vow to stay as true to the idealized college experience as possible with their content — even if it means chasing white whales.

Abadsidis: I can’t remember the exact starting budget, but it was upwards of a few million, probably much larger than most magazines get for their first issue! But our budget was also Bruce’s budget. He was getting advertising money, so we were well taken care of in that regard.

We weren’t really expected to turn a profit, though. That was never the point. Come to think of it, I don’t even think we tracked how much the magazine impacted clothing sales, although from what I can remember, clothing sales bumped up double digits every quarter after we launched (for a while, at least). [This statement is unverified.] But that didn’t matter: Our mission was just to set the brand image and make people aware of us. That was our version of success. We were also our only advertiser for a while, so we could get away with a lot of stuff that other publications couldn’t.

Gary Kon, managing editor, 1997-2003: When Savas offered me the job, I jumped at the opportunity. I’d already interned for Sam, and I’d have to scan hundreds of Bruce Weber images that he shot for Abercrombie as part of the job. And I fell in love with his work. It was the visual connection that seduced me. Weber’s photos were like a new Greek mythology; the men and women depicted in the photos were both idealized and sexualized. As a gay kid, who was pretty comfortable by that time in my own skin, I had no problem recognizing the eroticism in his work.

Abadsidis: Me, Gary and Patrick was definitely something special. I don’t think I’ll ever have an opportunity to create anything like that again. I was a huge comic book fan. If I had to describe it, it’s the closest thing I’ll ever come to Stan Lee’s Marvel comics bullpen. Pretty much everyone I hired was super unique. We weren’t all gay (maybe half of us were) but few of us really adhered to the Abercrombie image.

I think Sean came on in 2001.

Sean T. Collins, managing editor, 2001-2003: I was a little skittish about it at first because Abercrombie & Fitch represented everything I was not. They marketed, almost exclusively, to the lacrosse players that called me names I cannot repeat. It was very preppy, and that was not me at all.

I was alternative, maaan. I was a big fan of Nine Inch Nails. I wore a lot of black. A&F was everything I wasn’t, and in a way, everything that had tormented me as a kid. The irony of me working for them was palpable, but what I learned very quickly was that at the Quarterly, you could do anything that you wanted.

One of my first articles was an interview with Clive Barker, the writer and director of Hellraiser (he also wrote Candyman). Now, if you’ve seen Hellraiser, you can imagine just how far of a departure a sadomasochistic horror film was from Abercrombie & Fitch, but getting him to sign on was easy. He’s gay, and at the time, he was super ripped. I think he appreciated the extravagant gayness of the Weber stuff in particular. He was also a photographer, and his husband was, too. I think he recognized what was going on with the photography.

We had an unlimited expense budget, so I took him out for drinks at the Four Seasons. I talked to him for hours, and then he invited me to go back to his house and hang out and see his art studio. He had three mansions in a row on Sunset in Los Angeles, up in the hills. One for his office, one for his actual domicile and one that was a painting studio. I got to see that. I was just a 23-year-old kid. This was my first job out of college, and I felt like Cameron Crowe from Almost Famous. After that, I was like, “Holy shit, there are no limits.”

Kon: I have to credit Savas with pushing us to work without limitations. We were very lucky. At some point during my tenure, I realized that as long as we worked within our (sizable) budget, we had almost full autonomy. We could plan trips to Hollywood to shoot our favorite actors. We could travel to Thailand to reenact our version of The Beach. We could tag along to London or Rome or wherever Bruce was shooting the catalog. We could stroll into the office at 11 a.m. and work until 11 p.m.

Collins: If I wanted to talk to Bettie Page, the pinup model from the 1950s, they’d be like, “Okay, sure.” If I wanted to feature Underworld, my favorite electronic music band, it was, “Sure, go ahead.” It was total editorial freedom, which was so strange knowing how specific of a person the “Abercrombie type was.” I’ve been writing for two decades now, and I’ve never experienced anything like it since.

Abadsidis: Everyone wanted to be in it, too. At first, it was just indie musicians. But then, in the second issue, we snagged Lil’ Kim. That’s when I knew we’d made it big. She was into it — she loved everything about the Quarterly. A lot of people did. The whole high-brow/low-brow thing was really appealing, and the idea of going to college, reading good books, getting drunk and having sex felt uniquely nostalgic and fresh in the context of America back then. Clinton was getting impeached for getting a blow job. It was just a weird, puritanical time, and the Quarterly gave people a national platform to let their freak flag fly.

We had Rudy Guiliani, early Britney Spears, Paula Abdul. There was the New York issue where we talked about the Harlem Renaissance. Spike Lee — one of my idols — asked me if he could be in it. He’d done advertising, you know? I remember him being like, “Yo, this is the deal. I’ve got to give you mad props. This is the dopest thing out right now, advertising-wise.”

We had big-time philosophers and literary figures, too. They were great. We wanted to mimic the experience of being in college and having your mind expanded, so we got writers like Bret Easton Ellis and Michael Cunningham on board. There was a whole Sex Ed issue plastered with musings from Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek, a friend of a professor’s from college. I believe Jonathan Franzen was in there, too.

Jonathan Franzen, award-winning novelist and essayist: I gave hundreds of interviews between 1997 and 2003, almost all of them at the request of various publishers. One of them must have thought it was a good idea to talk to A&F. The fact that I apparently did (I don’t remember it) signifies nothing except that I felt grateful to my publishers.

Collins: We got a lot of weirdos, too. John Edward, the guy who talked to dead people. Chuck Palahniuk, who wrote Fight Club. At the time, it didn’t have the meathead reputation that it does now. It was legitimately looked at as this piece of anti-corporate, anti-capitalist art, the irony of which was just delightful given that we were a capitalist brand trying to sell polo shirts and $90 ripped jeans.

Abadsidis: The only guy who refused an interview was Donald Trump! I have a feeling his 90-year-old secretary had something to do with it. Though we were technically a magalog and did belong to the brand, our stuff was just really visionary. David Keeps, who was the editor of Details at the time, always defended the Quarterly as a real magazine and publicly said that we were doing more innovative stories than most “real” magazines at a time.

ASPIRATIONAL HOMOEROTICS

It’s no secret that the photography and creative direction of Weber and Shahid contained homoerotic undertones. Irreverent, minimal and moody, it was suggestive without being literal, spinning entire storylines into a single frame. At the same time, it was too idealized to be “real.” The queerness that their photos showed was, as Collins puts it, “aspirational,” meaning that like the mostly white, ab-riddled models instructed to sell cargo shorts by taking them off, they didn’t necessarily represent the full reality of what queerness actually was.

Still, the photos that the Quarterly published during its seven-year run did more to normalize and represent queerness and non-monogamy than any other mainstream brand at the time — weird, considering that Abercrombie’s target market was hegemonic suburbanites whose parents bred genetically pure golden retrievers and had cabins in Vail. Without these photos, the Quarterly might have read more as a minor-league Esquire or Ivy League MAD Magazine, but with them, it became one of the least-discussed, most under-appreciated items queer history.

Collins: Our editorial content — which almost functioned as a parody of so-called ��Abercrombie people” — was always accompanied by this extremely beautiful photography that was also extremely queer. But it was never explicitly so. It was all this nudge, nudge, wink, wink stuff. I don’t know how you could miss it, though. The homoeroticism was so overt.

Abadsidis: You’d have had to have been blind not to consider the imagery homoerotic (though, it was really in the eye of the beholder). We had the Carlson twins posing on the cover and riding a motorcycle. We had a drag queen named Candis Cayne. There was a lesbian couple kissing at a wedding.

Kon: David Sedaris, Gus Van Sant, Gregg Araki, Avenue Q, Stan Lee, Peaches, Fischerspooner… you could teach a queer theory class with everyone we featured.

Abadsidis: At the same time, we never labeled anything as “gay” or “lesbian” or “queer.” We never came out and said, “Welcome to our gay magazine!” and we never had a meeting where we were like, “Okay, guys, let’s figure out how to make this thing gay.” It was more nonchalant. The imagery implied it without saying it.

Hampton Carney, A&F Quarterly spokesperson, 1999-2003: The message we were sending was clear: “You do you, whatever that is. Have fun!”

Abadsidis: That was a very 1990s thing.

Collins: There was a specific brand of Abercrombie gayness that got shown, though. The word that they always used to describe Abercrombie as a brand was “aspirational.” They didn’t want to make it like an everyday, normal-people brand. They wanted it to be associated with money, glamour and that WASP-y aesthetic. So all the gay raunch of it was presented within the context of what appeared to be a very square, nuclear family: white, wealthy and secure.

At the same time, that was really when same-sex marriage was kicking off as a political issue. I think you can see a commonality in how Abercrombie was essentially making an argument that you could be a normie and also be gay. That was a newish thing at the time (though I’m barely an expert as I’m not gay myself). Still, I can’t help but see a resonance between coming up with this clandestine content that normalized being gay at the same time this big political fight that was brewing.

Maybe being more forward about it would have come across as “too political.”

Abadsidis: Part of me wishes we’d gone a little further with being more outwardly queer, but I don’t think the time was right. Maybe with a braver CEO — no one at the time was brave enough to take on queerness or gay rights as a mainstream brand, including us — and that’s why few people remember the Quarterly as the sort of transcendent queer thing that it was.

Kon: It’s never been credited as such, but the Quarterly is really an item of gay history. I don’t think we were pushing a “gay” or “metrosexual” lifestyle on people as much as we were showing that it already existed, even out in Middle America. Perhaps that’s what made people uncomfortable. We took that thread of counterculture and taboo that ran through the imagery and continued it into the editorial content. We dealt with topics like drinking, drugs, religion, politics and sex. Again, these are issues young people dealt with daily, but were rarely editorialized.

At Vassar, there was a yearly party called The Homo Hop. It was one of the biggest parties of the year and leaned on Vassar’s history as a women’s college. I bring this up because, on the night of my freshman Homo Hop, I was instructed that each student had to do something sexually that they had never done, and one drug that they had never done. It wasn’t that you had to be gay, but you had to experience something that was new and different. I think that translated well into the Quarterly. Yes, there were a bunch of gay guys writing and shooting and drawing images. But we were simply trying to expose Cargo Short Brett to ideas, images, artists, books, writers and directors that he may have never heard of before. Our shared experiences would become his.

Collins: It was culture jamming, really.

Abadsidis: It was also very “college” to be fluid or experimental without labeling it. I think it’s safe to say that college is one of the gayest places there is in life, maybe not sexually, but definitely in terms of having your mind expanded about different types of people.

Carney: I was in a frat. I’d see fraternity brothers streaking across campus together. It was never a big deal. There are a lot more people in the middle of either extreme of sexuality than people talk about. We’re not one and 10 — we’re one through 10, if you will. That kind of stuff has always happened on college campuses, and that’s the kind of mentality we had around sex. We just happened to editorialize it really beautifully.

Collins: There’s a Barbara Kruger print that reminds me of the mood we were trying to capture: It reads: “You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men.” That’s basically what Abercrombie & Fitch was. It was an intricate ritual that allowed sunkissed lacrosse players to metaphorically touch the skin of other men.

Carney: You know what’s funny, though? It was never the gay stuff people had a problem with. It was everything else.

LET THE CONTROVERSIES BEGIN

For almost every moment of its seven-year life, The Quarterly was a controversial publication. Parents, politicians and conservative-types didn’t appreciate its no-holds-barred approach to rampant fucking, and they could not, for the life of them, understand how such an adult magazine was making its way into the hands of their precious teens (who were probably jacking off to dad’s Playboys long before the Quarterly came along, but I digress). There was approximately one year — 1997 — where the amount of people it pissed off stayed below a critical mass, but after a certain somebody published a story that vaguely suggested underage kids drink, it was off to the races.

Abadsidis: We got in our fair share of trouble with Christian groups and concerned parents right off the bat. Let’s take one of the earlier issues — I believe it was Summer of 1998. It was my story. Basically, I suggested that people could do better than beer and that they should “indulge in some creative drinking.” There was one drink I made up called the “Brain Hemorrhage” and a few others you could play a drinking game with. We also included a spinner insert people could cut out.

None of it had anything to do with driving, of course, but the issue was called “On the Road.” It was a sort of beat-focused, Jack Kerouac thing, so some people interpreted that as us promoting drunk driving (though we did nothing of the sort). Also, the kid on the cover was underage. He was 16, if I remember correctly. Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) didn’t like that.

Karolyn Nunnallee, vice president of public policy for MADD: We had been really focused on underage drinking and had been instrumental in getting the country’s legal drinking age raised to 21. Then Abercrombie & Fitch comes out with this weird magazine that basically said, “Don’t go back to college drinking the usual beer. We’re going to show you a new way to drink.”

Not only did they have this drinking game, but they had recipes for these mixed drinks for young people to partake in. I was like, “Abercrombie & Fitch? Aren’t they in the clothing business?” What in the world were they doing? I mean, they were a high-end brand, not Walmart. Why would they take their focus off of clothing and put it toward alcohol? Were their clothes not good enough that year or something?

Needless to say, we weren’t happy with them. Curse words were handed out. We sent a letter to them and started a whole media campaign about it. We went on as many news media outlets as we possibly could with the story of how incensed we were.

Abadsidis: I was sure I was going to get fired over that. We had to remove the page with the spinner out of every single issue across the country. We apologized, of course, but it ended up backfiring against the protesters — that incident gave us so much publicity. It put us on the map. It also made us a target for conservative types. They hated us. After MADD, boycotts of Abercrombie started flaring up all over the place. That’s around the time we hired Hampton to do PR.

Carney: It was my job, at the time, to defend the brand. I’d go on talk shows like Entertainment Tonight or Today Show and explain away our latest controversy (there were a lot). It wasn’t hard, actually; each time, I’d give them what was more or less my go-to response: “It’s a beautiful publication intended for college-aged kids.” And that was the truth! It was way ahead of its time and was absolutely meant for people 18 and up.

Though not everyone saw it that way. The sex and nudity really got to people. A lot of them definitely thought we were making porn. That was the constant complaint: We were deliberately putting porn in the hands of young kids.

Lever: The Quarterly featured about the same level of nudity as a European yogurt commercial. Which is to say, a lot. It was a “clothing catalog” with almost no clothing. Of course [American] people thought it was pornographic!

Carney: Okay, sure — there were photos of like, six girls in bed with one guy and more than a few spreads that enthusiastically suggested naked non-monogamy — but it wasn’t porn. It was tasteful. And let me tell you — nothing we had in there was surprising to kids.

Abadsidis: The models ranged from 16 to 20. It was erotic. It was art. I don’t think there’s anything pornographic about the Quarterly unless you think that nudity, in and of itself, is pornographic.

Illinois Lieutenant Governor Corinne Wood did, apparently. In 1999, she called for a boycott of Abercrombie & Fitch because its “Naughty or Nice” holiday issue “contained nudity” and “even an interview with a porn star.” That porn star was none other than Jenna Jameson, who at the time was well on her way to becoming a household name. A so-called “child prodigy” occupied the neighboring page, sparking accusations that the Quarterly somehow intended to connect children to porn.

A cartoon of Mr. and Mrs. Claus experimenting with S&M across from the statement “Sometimes it’s good to be bad” didn’t help, nor did the “sexpert” who offered advice on “sex for three” and told readers that going down on each other in a movie theater was acceptable “just so long as you do not disturb those around you.”

The Illinois Coalition of Sexual Assault joined Wood’s boycott. Later that year, Michigan attorney general (and eventual governor) Jennifer Granholm sent a letter to Abercrombie complaining that the “Naughty or Nice” issue contained sexual material that couldn’t be distributed to minors under state law.

Carney: There were four states that tried to ban us after that. I remember Granholm. She was my arch-nemesis at the time — we really got into it. I respected where she was coming from, of course, but our whole thing was that we weren’t showing anything that wasn’t actually happening on college campuses. And I’d already made it pretty clear to the press that the magazine wasn’t for minors.

Also, it’s not like we were the only magazine talking about or showing sex. You could find all the exact same stuff in Cosmo or Playboy — it’s just that we were a clothing brand, and one whose major customer base just so happened to be teens and young adults. No one expected that from us. Brands weren’t “supposed” to be talking about sex period, let alone to teens and young adults. But we took it upon ourselves to pioneer a more open, honest view of it. That’s the wrinkle that made it so interesting.

We did come to an agreement with Granholm. We decided to wrap the magazine in plastic and make it available for purchase only to those over 18, that way, it’d be even more clear that we weren’t “selling porn to the underage.”

Kon: I believe it was one of the few times the company acquiesced.

Collins: Other than that, don’t remember getting any instruction from Savas, Mike or Sam to tone it down. It was kind of mutually assumed that we weren’t going to apologize for the sexual nature of our content. We knew we had to keep things sexy, as it were — that was our whole thing.

We weren’t deliberately trying to piss off people, but we were trying to push the envelope, and there was definitely an element of deliberate trolling of conservatives and Christian groups. It was a good thing if we pissed them off. It created the controversy that made the brand seem edgy and dangerous, which is what you want if you’re trying to appeal to young people.

Carney: We were also just showing real things that happened at college. And as anyone who’s been to college knows, it’s not just about reading and writing papers. It’s also about sex. Not only that, of course, but we’re sexual beings. We respond to images that are sexual. We were trying to take the stigma away from that and acknowledge that it’s not a bad thing to do.

But no matter how clear we made it, our stance on sex polarized people more and more. I could tell, because almost as soon as I started speaking on behalf of the magazine, strange things started to happen to me. I got stalkers. People left me messages saying I was going to hell and I’d have no afterlife. I got hate mail to my house. One person left a package containing their dirty, stained underwear at the front door of my apartment with a note saying they’d be “coming by later” to “talk to me about it.” I had to call the police on that one.

I was the face of the publication, so I got the vast majority of the harassment. But I didn’t mind. It was my job to take the fall, and I heard and respected every single person’s complaint and talked to them about it. Plus, for every message I got banishing me to hell, I got another from a journalist or a fan begging me to save a copy for them. People collected them. They really loved it, precisely because it was so sexual.

Abadsidis: Mike didn’t flinch about any of this stuff. He wanted to defend it because he could see it was working. We weren’t about to tone anything down (at the time).

Flash-forward to June 2001. The Twin Towers are still standing tall, tips are being frosted and Apple has just unleashed iTunes onto an unsuspecting populace. A&F Quarterly, now in its fourth year, is in hot water once again. Having survived a number of boycotts, lawsuits and controversies since its inception, it’s now in the midst of weathering another minor national conniption over its use of nudity.

Jeannine Stein, describing the Summer 2001 issue in an excerpt from a Los Angeles Times article called “Nudity? A&F Quarterly Has It Covered”: [It’s] explicit in ways that most catalogs and fashion magazines are not, and its use of male nudity is uncommon among general-interest publications. It features 280 pages of young, attractive men and women alone and together, in serious, romantic, sexual and party modes, wearing lots of A&F clothes, some A&F clothes and sometimes no clothes at all. Among the coffee-table book-ish photos by Bruce Weber is a man, covered only by a towel, surrounded by five women; a woman at the beach reclining body-to-body with three men; a back view of a naked man getting into a helicopter (we haven’t quite figured that one out yet); and a few topless females.

There are many naked butts and breasts.

Abadsidis: We also had photos of nude women in a fountain — which were inspired by Katharine Hepburn skinny-dipping at Bryn Mawr College — and a whole set dedicated to the Berkeley student that spent a day naked in class. It was par for the course for us, but even though we’d done the whole shrink-wrap and over-18 thing, people still felt it was too sexual for branded content.

In response, an unexpected alliance formed between cultural conservatives and anti-porn feminists to boycott Abercrombie & Fitch over the Summer 2001 issue of A&F Quarterly. According to Wikipedia, the offending issue included “photographs of naked or near-naked young people frolicking on the beach,” “top-naked young women and rear-naked young men on top of each other” and an “interview with porn star Ron Jeremy, who discussed performing oral sex on himself and using a dildo cast from his own penis.” Once again, Wood was at the helm.

David Crary, journalist, excerpt from a 2001 Associated Press article: Illinois Lt. Gov. Corinne Wood — a Republican who has been sparring with A&F since 1999 — announced the boycott campaign last week in Chicago. She has recruited a diverse mix of supporters more familiar with facing off against each other than with working together.

Wood, writing on her website in 2001: A&F is glamorizing indiscriminate sexual behavior that unsophisticated teenagers are not possibly equipped to weigh against the dangers of date rape, unplanned pregnancies and sexually transmitted disease.

Michelle Dewlen, president of the Chicago chapter of the National Organization for Women, speaking at one of Woods’ press conferences in 2001: It’s not a catalog. It’s a soft porn magazine.

Rev. Bob Vanden Bosch, head of Concerned Christian Americans, as quoted by the AP: It’s very important for people to get involved. The exploitation of sex and young people in A&F’s catalog isn’t only atrocious but also a psychological molestation of their teenage customers.

Quart: It was predatory in a few ways, really. One was that it confused the corporate identity of Abercrombie and the advertising with the editorial. It preyed on young consumers not understanding the difference between editorial content and sales content. Back then it led, I saw, to a way that girls were objectifying themselves and commodifying themselves. It ultimately led to boys also objectifying themselves and commodifying themselves — not to the same extent, but far more than they were when I started reporting Branded a little more than two decades ago.

I have the stats on the male body image dysmorphia at the time in Branded (which has only worsened). Then, male body shaming and “manorexia” was on the rise, for the first time on a mass scale. It couldn’t help for the most popular brand at the time to have a dedicated giant glossy magazine filled with pictures of male teenagers with zero body fat half undressed.

Abadsidis: I mean, sure, as much as any advertising does. It wasn’t like we were leading that charge. Any effect on self-image was certainly unintentional, but I do think it did make people want to be athletic. You definitely saw a lot of guys trying to look like that during that period, especially as time went on. If you look at the first few issues, the guys aren’t that built. Ashton Kutcher was actually in the second one — that was his first big break — and they get increasingly more cut from there. That whole era is when men’s body issues started to come out.

Lever: I’d also submit that all this was controversial because it was pre-internet. The internet mainstreamed sexual content in a way that makes A&F or other “scandalous” ad campaigns (like the 2003 Gucci ad with the model’s pubes shaved into the shape of a G) seem quaint, even obsolete. Like, do you remember that Eckhaus Latta ad a few years ago that scandalized people for five minutes because it showed people having real (albeit pixelated) sex? Neither does anyone else.

SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK TEACHES SEX ED

Always filled with philosophy, social theory and intellectually minded topics that likely soared over the heads of most Abercrombie consumers, the Quarterly outdid itself in the Fall of 2003 with its penultimate issue. A gorgeous romp of summer-spirited abandon accompanied by some delightfully incoherent, Dada-like musings from Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek, it connected a “back-to-school” theme with a pretty clear directive to fuck. Yet, the information it presented was actually rather safe and tame, a reality which confused and irritated Quarterly staff. Their content was legit, so why was everyone up in arms?

Abadsidis: The “Sex Ed” issue was the second to last one that we did. It got some of the most criticism, and was supposedly the reason everything was finished. I literally had stuff in there cited straight from the University of Michigan’s freshman student handbook on sexual conduct, and it still pissed people off! Then, of course, there was Žižek.

Lever: Žižek identifies as a radical leftist. He’s very famous for his work on cultural theory and critical theory. He analyzes all kinds of topics in his signature, impenetrable — but also approachable — style. And when I think of him, I think of his very distinctive manner of speaking, that some people have described as being on cocaine constantly. But he’s definitely kind of a cult figure, a favorite of people who consider themselves highbrow, but also fun.

He’s really touted as the greatest anti-capitalist of our time, and yet, here he was, “sexually educating” the mean girls and boys of your high school, in a brand catalog whose entire goal was to ensnare young people for the purpose of selling them distressed jeans.

According to the magazine’s foreword, the editor wrote to Žižek and said this: “Dear Slavoj, enclosed please find the images for our back to school issue. We’ve never had a philosopher write the text for our images before, so write what you like. We’re looking for that Karl Marx meets Groucho Marx thing you do so well. Thanks, Savas.”

Abadsidis: I love Slavoj. He was friends with one of my professors from school. He only had 24 hours to write this, so we actually sent someone to London where he was to drop off the images we wanted him to write text for. They hung out for a day and then flew back with what he’d written.

Lever: It was basically a series of insane, absurdist ramblings pasted over really hot naked people.

Žižek, excerpt from A&F Quarterly’s 2003 Sex Ed issue: Back to school thus means forget the stupid spontaneous pleasures of summer sports, of reading books, watching movies and listening to music. Pull yourself together and learn sex.

Lever: I mean, that’s like the first episode of every teen TV show, where these three nerdy boys start high school and they’re like, “Okay, we’re going to be cool this year guys. We’re going to lose our virginities.” It’s very formulaic. But there’s more.

Žižek: The only successful sexual relationship occurs when the fantasies of the two partners overlap. If the man fantasizes that making love is like riding a bike and the woman wants to be penetrated by a stud, then what truly goes on while they make love is that a horse is riding a bike… with a fantasy like that, who needs a personality?

Lever: The “go learn sex at school” part really struck a nerve with conservatives. But I don’t think it was that transgressive. Fourteen-year-olds are receiving messages to have sex all the time — what did it matter if some Eastern European anti-capitalist was hitting them over the head with it through the pages of a polo shirt advert?

Abadsidis: Fox News got involved, if I remember correctly. That was one of the few times I actually got pissed off about how an issue was being covered. I mean, the information in there was handed out to students by an actual university. Half the issue was quotes from this really influential philosopher. But for some reason, people really took offense to the language of it. That whole year [2003] was just a bad one for us.

THE LAST HORNY CHRISTMAS

For its final trick, the Quarterly released a holiday issue featuring 280 pages of “moose, ice hockey, chivalry, group sex and more.” It had oral sex, group sex, sex in a river, Christmas sex and pretty much every other type of sex you could think of, all which followed an earnest letter from Abadsidis which read: “We don’t want much this year, but in keeping with the spirit, we’d like to ask forgiveness from some of the people we’ve offended over the years. If you’d be so kind, please offer our apologies to the following: the Catholic League, former Lt. Governor Corrine Wood of Illinois, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund, the Stanford University Asian American Association, N.O.W.”

But the issue didn’t really hit. By fall 2003, Abercrombie was involved in a number of lawsuits and protests related to exclusion and discrimination, which left people cold despite the inviting warmth of a crackling, fireside circle jerk (a Weber offering which, I’m told, can be found on page 88 of the final issue).

Cole Kazdin, journalist, writing in a 2003 Slate article called “Have Yourself a Horny Little Christmas”: The challenge for me, when masturbating with my friends to the nubile nudies in the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, is trying not to think about serious things like racial diversity; it tends to kill the mood. But because most of the models in the catalog are white and because a lawsuit has been filed against the clothing retailer for allegedly discriminating against a Black woman who applied for a job at the store, it’s hard for the issue not to rear its nonsexy head. [In 2004, Abercrombie also agreed to pay $40 million to settle a lawsuit that accused the company of promoting whites over Latino, Black, Asian-American and female applicants.]

Collins: As a brand, Abercrombie did a lot of things that were quite gross. I’m sure you remember when they came out with these T-shirts with these racist stereotype characters on them. You would just see it in the catalog and just be like, “Jesus Christ.” It was awful and stupid and self-defeating, just tone deaf. And we just couldn’t figure out how no one at the company saw the problem with it.

Stagg, excerpt from Sleeveless: Kids in my high school wore shirts that read, “Wok-n-Bowl” and “Wong Brothers Laundry Service: Two Wongs Can Make It White,” accompanied by cross-eyed propaganda-style cartoons. If you weren’t part of the in-crowd (and white), A&F was oppressive. Non-jocks made their own anti-A&F T-shirts, using the brand as a catchall for exclusionary, competitive behavior and old-fashioned bullying.

Carney: That stuff was indefensible, really. Those were the darkest days of my job — listening to calls and reading letters about how offensive those shirts were. Even though the Quarterly was quite separate from the brand and we had no influence over what they did or what clothes they designed, we did still have to print their stuff at the back of the magazine. It was pretty uncomfortable.

Stagg: By 2006, Mike Jeffries’ most controversial public statement on sex appeal was really just saying what we were all thinking: “Are we exclusionary? Absolutely.” Those remarks were followed by lawsuit after lawsuit, mostly involving staffing discrimination. An announcement about the store refusing to carry anything over a size 10 reportedly marked a noticeable decrease in sales.

Abadsidis: There were a lot of underlying problems at the company. The amount of negative press Abercrombie was getting was getting silly. No matter what we did, we’d end up in the news, especially if it was related to the Quarterly. After so many bad news incidents, it just felt done, like its moment had passed. It was bound to crash at some point.

Gina Piccalo, excerpt from the Los Angeles Times: Clothing retailer Abercrombie & Fitch has pulled its controversial in-store catalogs after outraged parents, conservative Christian groups and child advocates threatened a boycott over material they said was pornographic. However, a company spokesman said the move had nothing to do with the public outcry. The catalogs were pulled to make room near cash registers for a new Abercrombie & Fitch fragrance.

Abadsidis: People like to think that the boycotts and Christian protests had something to do with it, but that wasn’t the case at all. By 2003, Abercrombie’s stock was low — something to do with ordering too much denim. The store was having negative sales for the first time. There was the line in the New York Times, who covered our demise, that Mike was “bored” with it.

Collins: We had no warning. We were all there one day, and the next, we were gone.

Lever: The Quarterly was a relic of a different time. I feel like it could never have been made after 2008 for so many reasons — economic, and cultural and political. It would just never fly. It was made before feminism pervaded everything, at a time where you could be completely flagrant about gross patriarchal shit and still get away with it.

It was kind of like this last gasp of a certain conception of what’s desirable — a very hegemonic coolness exemplified by white Ivy League frat kids who got fucked up the night before their philosophy class. That doesn’t have much currency anymore. Abercrombie kept that image on life support until its last gasp.

Now, 20 years later, what’s cool is not that. What’s cool is to have depression and ADD. The ideal is out. The real is in. And the Quarterly, having always existed in the liminal space between, is neither here nor there.

EPILOGUE

In 2008, Abercrombie resurrected the Quarterly in the U.K. for a limited-run special edition to celebrate the success of its European stores. The original team was reunited — Abadsidis, Shahid and Weber — with the hopes that Britain’s more “open-minded approach to culture and creativity” would provide a welcoming substrate on which to re-grow their original ideas of sexual liberation. The issue, “Return to Paradise,” was “more mature” than its American cousin. It was well-received — aside from the usual protests about sex and nudity — but it wasn’t continued.

Two years later, in 2010, the Quarterly was revived again, this time as a promotional element for Abercrombie’s Back-to-School 2010 marketing campaign, which bore the unfortunate title of “Screen Test.” The lead story Abercrombie put out on its website sounded like a cross between American Idol and a gay porn shot: “The staff of A&F Studios opens up to editorial to explain the steps the division takes to find new, young, hot boys. The cattle-call approach to herd young talent ends with the best of the beefcake earning a screen test that ‘could be the flint to spark the trip to the star.’”

Bruce Weber would be shooting, of course. This would become especially ominous after he was accused of a series of casting-couch style sexual assaults by 15 male models beginning in 2017. According to the accusations, he subjected them to sexually manipulative “breathing exercises” and inappropriate touching, insinuating that he could help their careers if they complied.

Arick Fudali, a lawyer at the Bloom Firm, which represents five of Weber’s alleged victims, declined to confirm or deny whether any of the alleged assaults happened on a Quarterly shoot. If they did, they’re not prosecutable as sexual assaults in New York. Because the states’s statute of limitations on reporting rape is only three years, anything that happened during the Quarterly’s run wouldn’t count toward a sexual assault charge (unless a minor was involved, which Fudali also declined to confirm).

No one I spoke with for this story remembers seeing, hearing or experiencing anything like what the allegations against Weber describe, but some expressed concern over how they might affect the legacy the Quarterly leaves behind. “The accusations are pretty grim,” Collins told me. “You feel for the people who are put in that position. People had power over them. It just makes you think, ‘Was any of this worth it?’ Not really, if people were getting hurt.”

As such, it’s difficult to conclude with definitive sign-off about the Quarterly’s legacy. Either it was a bastion of progressive and transversive sexuality that simultaneously trolled and nourished the very audience it sought to mine, or it was the product of darkness and pain. Either way, Sockel sums it up just right: “The Quarterly was discontinued in 2003, after the American Decency Association boycotted photos of doe-eyed bare-assed jocks in prairies and glens,” he wrote in his recollection. “It was nice while it lasted.”

[dimitrescus-bitch]

Secondhand Stress (Sansa Stark x Margaery Tyrell)

smut

Sansa Stark needed a break. She had been studying nonstop for some big exam and Jeyne was honestly tired of seeing Sansa so stressed. That, and Jeyne was starting to get secondhand stress. Jeyne had finished her exams and was just waiting for the results, so she was in absolutely no mood to take on Sansa's extra stress. Now that Sansa had completed her exams, Jeyne was taking her roommate out for the night to a bar so that she could get hit on by some guys that Sansa wouldn't go home with and have some free drinks. All Jeyne had to do was wait for Sansa to get back home from returning her books to the library.

"Finally!" Jeyne exclaimed whenever Sansa stepped into their off-campus apartment. It wasn't too far away and was much closer to the good bars than the on-campus apartments were. Jeyne and Sansa had learned their junior year of college that the good booze was about ten miles away from campus downtown in the city. So, every month or so, they would set aside some money from their paychecks and go out to drink there. Neither of them really minded drinking at the bars on-campus, but they weren't the same. Something about not having to deal with 15 different, yet nearly indifferentiable douchebags hitting on you from all angles didn't make for a fun night out. "Go hurry and get dressed. The Uber is on its way."

"Uber for what?" Sansa asked. Jeyne, ever so helpful, did not answer her question, instead shoved her down the hall to get changed. Sansa saw a dress on her bed, one that hadn't seen the light of day since it arrived the day after Sansa had drunkenly bought it. Jeyne had also taken the liberty of setting out two different pairs of "fuck me pumps" that had also been ordered while intoxicated. Thankfully, Sansa's parents didn't check to see what their kids were ordering on the family's Amazon account.

"You look hot, let's go." Jeyne pulled Sansa out of the door and to the car waiting for them. "I requested a sports car drop us off. That way, we'll definitely get in on."

"What bar are we going to tonight?" Sansa asked Jeyne.

"It's a new one. I drove past it earlier, huge glass windows and a lot of lights going on," Jeyne told Sansa. Sansa sighed, knowing that Jeyne didn't actually know where they were going. Still, Sansa was thankful to be spending a night out on the town after missing their past couple of nights out. Jeyne had been cross with her about it, apparently the rest of their friend group wasn't as fun to drink with as Sansa. That didn't surprise the Stark girl. There was a saying about Westeros and alcohol. Northerners could drink anybody under a table as long as it wasn't a true southerner. It was true enough because even though Winterfell was a bigger city in the north, they hadn't had a whole lot to do during the winter except for drink and play hockey. Sansa hadn't spent a lot of time in the south, but that was wine country and the holiday she had spent with her family there, had proved that they didn't mess around with their wine. However, her father had quite a difficult time finding a good local beer there.

"The Rose Bud," Sansa said as their car pulled up to the bar. It wasn't one that Sansa had seen whenever they'd last scoped out the downtown bar scene. The lights inside were soft and warm colored, which gave it a much more relaxing atmosphere than Sansa expected. They took a seat at a table close to the bar and a waitress brought over a menu for them to look at. "Do you want to get something to eat? I'm starving?"

"Tonight is about getting fucked up and fucked," Jeyne told Sansa. "Personally, I'm thinking tall, dark, and handsome over there."

"Gross, he looks like my brother. You need to get yourself sorted out," Sansa told Jeyne. Jeyne tilted her head so she was looking past Sansa and at the guy who definitely did look like Robb. Sansa rolled her eyes and frowned as she noticed it was mainly just wines. "These are like baby drinks Jeyne."

"These are great drinks, they're just not alcohol cleaner like what you're used to," Jeyne teased. Sansa kicked her under the table and Jeyne grumbled as she walked away. It was almost a record time, Jeyne finding a guy to abandon her at the bar for. Sansa sighed and ended up just ordering the drink with the highest proof available. Sansa was content with her drink, it was sweet and lacked the bite that she had gotten accustomed to whenever she used to steal sips of her parents drinks after dinner, but it was still nice. Sansa was definitely tipsy, which was when someone finally caught her eye.

There were expensive suits all over the bar, but none were as stylish as this one. At first, Sansa had just admired the soft pink coloring of the blazer. Then, she took a closer look and noticed the rose patterning etched into the fabric. Sansa wasn't sure why, but for once in her life, she was going to make the first move. Sansa slid out of her chair and steadied herself. The heels were a bit of a mistake, but Sansa was always up for a challenge. On slightly shaky legs, Sansa walked towards the woman in the suit and sat down next to her.

"What are you drinking?" the woman asked Sansa.

"The strong one," Sansa answered. The woman smirked and waved the bartender over. She pointed at a black bottle with a very pretty golden 'M' on the label.

"Good choice. It's a little strong though, must not be from around here," the woman teased.

"Sansa Stark," Sansa said, assuming that the woman would recognize her name and place her as one of the famous Stark kids. Their family was known throughout Westeros, there was always someone with a story about one of her parents.

"Margaery Tyrell." Sansa shook the woman's hand and noticed how soft, yet strong they were. "Would you like to get out of here?"

"With you?" Sansa asked. She was being hopeful, but Sansa didn't really know who else she was supposed to leave with Jeyne was definitely gonna end up with that guy she saw earlier and it was just the two of them who'd come out.

"Unless you think someone else should join us. I'm fine with the idea, but I was hoping to keep you all to myself for tonight." Margaery was charming the pants off of Sansa.

"Just us, definitely just us tonight," Sansa said and Margaery tugged her along outside. They got in the backseat of a car that looked like it was more than Sansa's rent for an entire year. Margaery opened up the bottle she took from the bar and handed it over to Sansa so she could get a drink. "Thank you. I really need a drink, I've been pretty stressed."

"I can tell. You're sort of wound up still," Margaery said as her hand glided up Sansa's thigh. Sansa choked on air when Margaery's fingers dipped under her dress. Margaery stopped touching Sansa to make sure that she was okay and Sansa decided to take the opportunity to kiss Margaery. Her lips had looked soft in the bar, and they were definitely soft in the car. Sansa felt good about that kiss, but completely melted whenever Margaery kissed her back. Margaery tasted like that vacation to the south that her parents had taken the family on years ago.

The car came to a stop in front of a very nice building and Margaery ushered Sansa out of the car. There was no feeling of giddiness as they made their way up to Margaery's penthouse apartment. Margaery kept her eyes on Sansa, watching her with a concentration Sansa had never experienced in a partner. When the elevator stopped inside of the apartment, Sansa was in awe of how beautiful everything was. Margaery didn't give Sansa much of a chance to really take in the decorum, but Sansa did get a very good look of Margaery's bed.

"Do you know what I want to do to you?" Margaery asked and Sansa shook her head. Margaery began to push Sansa's dress up a little bit, paused, and then looked at Sansa with a predatory smirk. "Do you have any ideas now?"

"Maybe a few," Sansa said weakly. Margaery leaned down and kissed Sansa, tongue gently prodding past Sansa's lips. Sansa welcomed her tongue and a familiar warmth overtook her body again. Margaery broke the kiss to continue to press kisses along Sansa's jaw and then down her neck. Sansa's hips lifted slightly and Margaery took the opportunity to once again push Sansa's dress up her body a bit. Once she got it just above Sansa's waist, Sansa's legs spread. Margaery's hand slipped in between Sansa's legs and over her underwear.

Sansa let out a small gasp at the feeling of Margaery's fingers against her. It had been too long since Sansa could remember being touched by another person. Her nights out with Jeyne often led to drunken masturbating, but this beat it. Sansa would have paid for that overpriced alcohol if it meant she'd get to run into Margaery again and again. Especially because Margaery was touching her like somebody who actually knew how to touch a woman. Sansa thought that was really a rarity, she'd only had a couple of partners who could have done that. And none of them held the same level of attractiveness that Margaery did. Margaery was beautiful yes, but there was also an air of something else that drew Sansa to her.

"Please, inside of me." Sansa began to pant a little bit. Her body was getting hotter and hotter, all waiting for Margaery to give her some release. Margaery, despite her aura of control, gave in to Sansa's request and pushed a finger inside of the Stark woman. Sansa spread her legs a little more and Margaery added another finger. Margaery kept a steady pace and all Sansa could hear were the sounds of Margaery's now soaked finger sliding in and out of her as well as her own moans. It was hot and Sansa didn't want it to end, but it seemed that her body had other plans.

Sansa's body trembled under Margaery's. Sansa's head was spinning and it wasn't until she felt Margaery's tongue inside of her that she was grounded again. Sansa's hands gripped the blankets on top of Margaery's bed as her back arched a bit. Margaery's hands came up to hold Sansa's body against the bed as her tongue slowly circled Sansa's clit. It felt amazing and Sansa could feel herself getting worked up again. Margaery moved down from Sansa's clit and began to lap up at her entrance. It was messy, but it left Sansa dripping all over Margaery's very expensive bed set.

"I think I'm go- oh!" Sansa didn't get to finish her statement. Instead, she came screaming and trashing. Margaery slowly trailed her tongue up Sansa's body as she moved to lay beside the taller woman. Margaery licked any trace of Sansa off of her fingers and then pressed a kiss to Sansa's lips. Sansa kissed back, but couldn't find the energy in herself to move.

"It's okay, if you're here in the morning, I'll show you a thing or two over breakfast," Margaery promised. Sansa nodded and curled up against Margaery. Margaery wasn't normally one to let her one night stands cuddle, or offer them another round in the morning, but there was something different about Sansa that Margaery liked.

#Sansaery #Sansa Stark x Margaery Tyrell #Sansa Stark #Margaery Tyrell #Game of Thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones imagines

[duhragonball]

Hellsing Liveblog  Ch.4-6

This arc is called “Sword Dancer”, and I have no idea why, since they never call Anderson’s weapons anything other than “blades”.   Are they swords?   Maybe, but you never see him dance.  

The story starts at an orphanage, where Alexander Anderson is a priest there, settling a fight between two boys.   He sounds gentle and patient at first, until he tells them that the only thing they should be fighting are demons and heathens.   That pretty much sums up the character.   His mercy and compassion are almost entirely confined to the membership of the Catholic Church.   

Then another priest shows up and informs him of all the vampire incidents going on in the U.K.  Anderson doesn’t much care, since it only means more dead Protestants, right?  Except this latest incident is happening in Northern Ireland.  

So this neatly sets up one of the major conflicts within Hellsing.  Kouta Hirano took the vampire lore from Dracula and expanded it into a sort of 20th Century Cold War thing.   Instead of a single vampire hunter using crosses and holy water, we have an entire government agency, a secret service steeped in religious imagery.    But that religion isn’t a homogeneous thing.   Christendom has splintered a few times over the centuries.   Most notably, there was the East-West Schism of 1054, which saw the Eastern Orthodox Church separated from the Roman Catholic, and the Protestant Reformation that began in 1517.

I’m not sure how much research Kouta Hirano did into this topic, because he seems to have distilled the whole thing down into two major vampire-hunting groups, the Catholic “Section XIII” also known as the “Iscariot Organization”, and the Protestant Hellsing Organization.   Hellsing only bothers with vampire stuff in the United Kingdom, while Catholic Ireland is under the protection of the Iscariots.

Presumably, the Iscariots are tasked with protecting other Catholic nations as well, and maybe other Protestant countries have their own vampire-hunting sqauds to mirror Hellsing, but this overlooks the bigger issue: Catholics and Protestant populations don’t just fit neatly inside of political borders.   There’s plenty of Catholics inside Great Britain, for example, so it’s kind of glib for Anderson to write off British casualties as “not my problem”.  

And I think Hirano recognizes this, which is how Northern Ireland ends up in this story.    All of Ireland was British territory until 1921, when it was partitioned.   Southern Ireland became an independent nation, while Northern Ireland wanted to remain in the U.K., so it did.   This has caused no small amount of conflict in the decades since, and Hirano uses it here rather effectively.    There’s a treaty between Iscariot and Hellsing, one that recognizes Northern Ireland as their territory, but Iscariot still sees a duty to protect the minority Catholic population.  

So Anderson is sent to deal with the vampire attack at Badrick (or “Patrick” depending on who’s translating, and if he runs into Hellsing, well that’s too bad for them.    Despite the treaty, Iscariot considers themselves to be the morally superior group, so they won’t back down if confronted.  

From all of this, I get the sense that the normal relations between these two groups sort of depends on the rarity of vampire attacks.    There’s a lot of unsettled issues between them, but as long as nothing happens in disputed zones like Northern Ireland, everyone sort of minds their own business. 

Anyway, it’s now August 15, and Hellsing is indeed intervening in Patrick.   I never understood why Alucard had Seras sitting outside while he fought the ghouls in this house, especially when he was just going to call her in later.  But now it makes more sense to me.    He went in expecting to kill the vampire inside, and she’s outside to shoot down anyone who tries to escape, just like in Chapter 3.   Except Al found more ghouls inside than he bargained for, and he finds this dull, so he’s calling an audible and bringing Seras in to handle them instead.  

And this marks the debut of Seras’s Hellsing uniform.    In the anime, she gets this look pretty much from the start, so it’s weird to see her wearing pants in Chapter 3.   I assume she’s wearing pants in Chapter 2, but we don’t see her lower body in that.   My head canon is that she was still wearing her old police gear up until Chapter 4, while this uniform was still being tailored.   

I have mixed feelings about the design.    My first time seeing Seras was a cosplay photo, and I dug the idea of a vampire soldier.   Once I found out Hellsing was all about weaponizing vampires, I got into it pretty quickly.   And I found out Seras started out as a police officer, and that seemed really cool.   Like Alucard would handle all the spooky blood licking stuff, and she would dust for fingerprints and use pencils to pick up guns.   The uniform implies a professional discipline, the sort of thing that would set it apart from the almost casual villainy I find in vampire shows like Buffy or what-have-you. 

But, the artwork tends to make this look ridiculous, because Hirano keeps drawing it like it’s skin-tight around the boobs.   I don’t understand why he keeps doing this, since you don’t normally see it on the other women characters in this story.    Unless the idea is to set Seras apart from the others, which I can sort of understand.    Seras is the sidekick, and to a certain extent, she’s supposed to look kind of silly.   Even in this heroic pose, there’s still something goofy about her, like she can’t quite achieve full dignity yet.   Maybe this is supposed to be like Robin wearing the short pants until 1991, but I never really cared for that creative choice either.   

So she starts going to town, and Alucard takes a lunch break while she’s at it, which is a cool moment that didn’t make it into the anime.   He reminds her that the ghouls have to be killed expediently using shots to the heart or head.   That one who fell down the steps was still moving, you see, so Al had to finish him off.

And this is where Seras first addresses Al as “Master”.  This was one of the first scenes I found when I started trying to find out more about the character.  At first, it seemed like Seras was all business, but then you get stuff like this, where she’s doing the creepy vampire bit as well.    I like the way Hellsing approaches this.    Seras is gradually adjusting to being a vampire, and she isn’t always aware of that adjustment as it happens.   It seems like combat helps her get into that zone.   Early on, Seras would seem to change into a berzerker state, then snap out of it.   Except she never snaps out of calling Alucard “Master”.  

This is the start of that hard-to-define relationship between the pair.  Remember, the Cheddar Priest said she would have free will as a vampire, but she defers to Alucard anyway.    Before, that just seemed to be a practical matter.  She recognized Alucard as a superior officer, and as a mentor figure.   But now it seems more fanatical. 

Watching the anime, I was suspicious of Alucard’s intentions, because... well why wouldn’t I be?    He’s fucking Dracular for pete’s sake.   I thought maybe he was angling for some chance to escape from Hellsing’s control, and maybe Seras was part of his plan.  Scenes like this didn’t exactly dissuade me from that notion.  Seras got some ghoul blood on her, and she finds herself compelled to eat it, and he’s looking on very excitedly.    But then she gets impaled through the neck, and that puts an end to that.

Back at headquarters, Integra gets word that the Iscariots have send Alexander Anderson to Barick, and she realizes that this could escalate into a major incident.   No one at Hellsing seems to know much about Anderson, except that he’s powerful, and if he runs into Alucard it could be a major battle.  

This page marks the first appearance of Walter C. Dornez, whom she calls for consultation.   I find it odd that Walter has already received the same report, and has already taken steps to deal with it.   Almost like he expected something like this to happen...? 🤔 🤔 🤔 🤔 

As it turns out, Anderson’s already there.   He’s the one who impales Seras with a bunch of blades/swords/bayonets/whatever, and he already killed the vampire that Alucard was sent to find.    As far as Anderson’s concerned, the only thing left to do is kill Alucard and Seras, but Al shoots him in the head before he can really get started.    But as he goes to remove the holy blades from Seras, Anderson gets back up for Round Two.

Alucard calls him a “Regenerator”, like this is a thing he’s encountered before.   Anderson’s not just a priest with blessed weapons, he’s got special powers that the Vatican gave him for the purpose of hunting vampires.  Then he stabs Alucard a bunch of times and prepares to cut off his head for good measure, until Polnareff jumps in and... no, wait, wrong story.   Yeah, Andy just chops his head off, then goes to finish off Seras.  

Except Seras got away.    Somehow she got up and lumbered off while he wasn’t looking, pulled out all the knives in her back, and then managed to double back and fetch Alucard’s head.   Trouble is, she still can’t get out of the house, because Anderson set up a mystical barrier using sheets of paper.   Boy, that’d suck if you touched a wall and it shocked you.  Seras probably won’t forget this moment....

Then Al’s head is like “Ight Imma head out,” and melts into a puddle of blood. 

The blood then arranges itself into words, which tell Seras to drink the blood, as this will make her into a “true” vampire, instead of a “servant” vampire, which I guess is what she is now.   And this is also the first time we learn Seras’ true name.   Everyone had been calling her “Police Girl” up until this point.   

Although, one might argue from this scene that this is not her original name, and perhaps it’s a brand new name Alucard invented for her, one that she has to earn by willfully drinking blood.   I’m pretty sure this was disproven by later flashbacks to Seras’ childhood, but it’s fun to think about.    Maybe we never knew her human name.   Maybe she doesn’t even remember it.

But before Seras can make that choice, Integra shows up with a couple of guards and tells Anderson to stand down.   He kills the guards, and promises to finish her off as well, but she tells him that Alucard can’t be killed with a simple decapitation.   

Also, Seras is back up.  She hasn’t consumed Al’s blood, but she does pick up a gun to defend Integra, which is pretty cool.   See?  She looks badass here, maybe because you can’t see her anime boobs in this shot.  

Anderson still likes his chances, until Alucard starts to reassemble his body.   Unlike other vampires, stabbing Al through the heart and cutting off his head aren’t enough to kill him.   This is because of... something the Hellsing family did to him over the past century.  I don’t think it gets spelled out in this story, but it’s heavily implied that the Van Hellsing from the Dracula novel defeated Dracula and then enslaved him, and his family line has been modifying him ever since to turn him into their anti-vampire weapon.    And a big part of that involves making him stronger than the typical vampire. 

So Anderson withdraws, but only because he now sees he’ll need a bigger boat.  Alucard tells Integra that Seras’s performance was “the usual”, which is funny considering how pleased he was with her before.    Also he scolds her for not drinking his blood, and calls her a coward when she asks to be addressed by her name.   One way or another, the theme here is that Seras has to earn a name.   The way she is now, Al doesn’t seem to think she needs one.

Volume 1 ends with some notes by Kouta Hirano, including the part about how Alucard and Anderson never seem to run out of weapons.   Cosmoguns? Fourth dimensional priests?   I’m beginning to think this manga about super-powered vampires may not be entirely realistic.

Since chapters 1-6 aren’t quite big enough to fill out a collected edition, Hirano also includes a backup feature called “Cross Fire”, which he produced for “a defunct comic master”.    He calls this a “springboard for Hellsing”, which isn’t hard to see, since it features the Iscariot Organization, including Enrico Maxwell, Heinkel Wolfe, and Yumiko Takagi, who show up later in Hellsing.

This short helps me understand these characters a lot better, because when I watched the anime, Wolfe and Yumiko just seemed to show up out of nowhere, with no explanation given.    I think it was assumed that you would have read the manga collections first, and would know who they were.   Anyway, they’re both nun assassins.   Heinkel dresses like a man and uses guns, while Yumiko weilds a sword, but only when he “berzerker” personality, named “Yumie” is activated.   In this story, she’s actually among the hostages that the duo were sent to protect, but Heinkel shows up and knocks her unconscious, which prompts her to wake up as Yumie and they killerize everyone.   

I’m not sure if the Cross Fire stories are considered canon or not.   The characters show up in Hellsing later, but not quite the same as before.  So maybe these are prototypes rather than the real things.  Maxwell, in particular, looks a lot like Integra here, to the point where I thought he might be a woman in this version.   But the Heinkel/Yumiko team bears a strong resemblance to Alucard and Seras working together in Chapters 4-6, so it’s not hard to see the connection. 

#hellsing #2021hellsingliveblog #sword dancer #alucard #sir integra hellsing #seras victoria #walter c dornez #alexander anderson #heinkel wolfe #yumiko takagi

[cozy-the-overlord]

Until Tomorrow

Summary:  Quarantine by itself is lonely enough. Quarantine amidst a rainstorm of biblical proportions is downright depressing. Lucky for you, a visitor arrives just in time to keep you company.

Word Count:  2,463

Pairing: Loki x Reader

A/N: Sooo..... I did a thing. I’ve never written fanfiction or reader-inserts before, but it was pouring rain last night and I’ve been reading so many quarantine fics on Ao3 that I thought I’d give it a whirl. I’ve never been more nervous about posting a story before... I hope you like it!

Also, I got an Ao3 account now, so you can read it here if you’d like

              It was raining.

              Although raining didn’t seem to do the weather justice. You couldn’t remember the last time you had witnessed such a torrential downpour. The pattering of raindrops rushing down your slanted roof had been drowned out by the wooshing of the fast-moving river that a few hours ago had been your street. Between the dark storm clouds and fog so thick you could cut it with a knife, you couldn’t make out exactly how bad the road was, but the waves that crashed against your window every time a car came skidding past your house told you that you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

              Not that you currently had any great travel plans.

              You sat on the couch at your front window, a book lying open and ignored in your lap, watching water droplets race down the glass as a shiver raced down your spine. Usually, you loved the rain. You had grown where storms were a treasured rarity, where you’d insist your mother buy you rainboots for your birthday only for her to give them away a year later when they became too small, balls of paper still stuffed into their toes. Usually, when it poured, you’d run into your driveway with your head back and arms out, belting out “Singin’ in the Rain” as you attempted dance moves that would make Gene Kelly role in his grave, just because you could.

              But today, you didn’t feel like dancing. With everything going on right now, the rain seemed less like a cause for celebration and more like a sign of impending doom. It had been weeks since you left the sanctuary of your tiny suburban house. You were lucky, everything considered— your parents were safely quarantined in your childhood home on the other side of the country, from where they FaceTimed with you at least once a day.

              Your job was secure. That was one of the wonderful things about working for Tony Stark: the day everyone was sent home, the head man himself sent out an email swearing to keep everyone on the payroll through the quarantine, regardless of how long it lasted. He had even set up a system for delivering groceries to his employees: you texted a number with your order, and a few hours later a red and gold drone dumped a box of overflowing plastic bags on your doorstep. That was something your mom couldn’t get over—Iron Man bringing you milk!— and honestly the ridiculousness of it all made you want to giggle, too.

              Sometimes, though, it was all too much. It had been ages since you’d seen anybody, ages since you had heard another voice unfiltered by the garbled speaker of your cell phone. You had never considered yourself to be an overtly social person, but damn did you wish you had somebody here to talk to. Your mother had been trying for years to convince you to adopt a pet, insisting that it wasn’t healthy for you to be living completely alone, but you had always brushed her off, saying that you were working so often that you were rarely at home and it would be cruel to the animal. Now, you promised yourself that as soon as this was over, you were heading to the Humane Society.

              If this was ever over.

              Outside, the rain kept pouring. The trickling water seemed to be whispering to you—sinister promises of something worse yet to come. You curled tighter upon yourself, pressing your cheek to your knees.

              Let this end. Please, just let this end.

              A crash behind you startled you out of your thoughts. You shrieked, whipping around to see a figure standing in your living room, soaking bags sprawled about him, staining the carpet. He scowled.

              “Bloody rainstorm. You can’t see a damn thing out there.” He shook his head and began wringing out his hair, muttering in a language you didn’t understand.

              It was several moments before you could find your voice. Once you did, it slipped out cautiously. “Loki?”

              “At your service, my lady.” He gave a grand bow, his words dripping with sarcasm.

               You stared. You knew Loki, of course. You were familiar with all of the Avengers who lived in the tower—your office was located on one of the higher levels, and as a result it wasn’t uncommon to see celebrities like Dr. Banner or Captain Rodgers making their way across the floor to meet with one of your coworkers. Unlike the others, however, you had actually spoken with Loki.

              The two of you had a little run in a few months ago, when you were refilling your coffee mug at the break room. You were already on edge because Dr. Foster was visiting, Dr. Jane Foster, and word about the floor was that she would be stopping by with Thor to meet some of the higher-level workers at some point during the day. You felt silly for feeling so starstruck, but Dr. Foster’s work was on another level of world-shattering, and the thought that you might be shaking her hand by the end of the day had you all sorts of jittery.

              Then the coffee pot exploded.

              Exploded wasn’t exactly the right word. It was more like an eruption— all at once the pitcher just vomited its contents across the counter, up to the ceiling, all over the floor, writing like an animal and spitting out more coffee than it possibly could’ve been holding previously. With a scream, you threw the anthropomorphic pot to the floor, adding shattered glass to the absolute mess in the break room.

              There wasn’t time to comprehend what just happened before he was there, pulling you out of the puddle of lukewarm coffee.

              “Forgive me, that was not supposed to happen. Are you hurt?” Loki scanned your form with an anxious sort of urgency. There was a tinge of pink on his cheeks—if you hadn’t known better, you would’ve said he was blushing. “Are you hurt?” he asked again when you only gaped at him like a dead fish. “Burned? That was not meant—forgive me.”

              “No,” you finally said. The coffee hadn’t been warm enough to do any damage. “Just… my clothes—”

               He waved his hand, and the sticky moisture clinging to your front disappeared. You ran your hand over your shirt, now dry and stainless. That’s useful.

               “Are you certain you are uninjured?” he asked. “I swear, that was not what I intended—”

               “I’m fine.” Now that the shock had worn off, you found yourself stifling the urge to giggle. “What were you trying to do?”

               Loki looked embarrassed. “My brother has the tendency of laying claim to the refreshments of any floor he visits, without leaving anything for those working on said floors. I thought I’d teach him a lesson.” He cast a glance back at the mess behind him. “The charm was meant only to react to him. I suppose I made a mistake in casting it.” He turned back to you. “I am sorry.”

               You smiled. “It’s alright. I guess I could use a bit of excitement in my life.”

               He grinned. “Words to live by.”

               After that, you had been friendly. You’d greet each other when you walked by one another, you’d make small talk in the elevator if you were riding together, he’d hold the door for you if he had the chance. Nothing serious, nothing even that personal really, just office-friendly.

              Definitely not crashing-unannounced-into-your-living-room-during-a-rainstorm-in-the-middle-of-a-pandemic friendly.

              “What—?” you sputtered, springing off the couch. “What are you doing here?”

              Loki dramatically gestured to the bags on the floor. “It seems I have been relegated to the status of a delivery boy.”

              Craning your neck, you recognized the label of your local grocery market. You frowned. “Did—did you bring me groceries?”

              The Asgardian in your living room huffed irritably. “You had an order for today, did you not?”

              You nodded slowly. Yes, you were waiting on an order today, and now that you were looking you could see that it was sprawled across the floor at Loki’s feet: a carton of orange juice, a tub of ice cream, a bag of potato chips… but what was Loki doing dropping off food for you?

              He sighed. “Stark, in his infinite wisdom, failed to consider the effect of such the elements—” he gestured to the monsoon outside your window “—on his mechanical messengers. As I am the only individual he knows with means of instantaneous travel, I have been encouraged to assist with deliveries. I am—what is the phrase?—making the rounds, if you will. ”

              “Oh.” You found yourself at a loss for words, likely looking every bit as dumbfounded as when you first met in the break room. You mentally slapped yourself. “Um… thank you. Here,” you moved to collect to foodstuff off the carpet, “I can, uh, start putting things away—”

              With one swift motion, Loki scooped everything up. “Allow me. Just tell me where you want me to put it.” You glanced up at him cautiously. He raised his eyebrows.

              “Uh, okay.”

              He followed you into your kitchen, and you cringed as you realized how truly disgusting your sink was. It had been ages since you had the motivation to do the dishes, and they had been piling up in your sink like the leaning tower of cheap ceramics for at least a week now. Loki didn’t say anything though. At your direction, he placed the bags on the counter and watched as you silently put the contents away.

              Even amidst all the awkwardness, there was something soothing about his presence. For the first time in weeks, there was a living, breathing person in your house, someone real to talk to and laugh with. So when Loki said that he had to finish his deliveries, the question that popped out of your mouth was birthed by pure desperation.

“Do you want something to drink before you go?” you asked. “Like, a glass of water? Or… I have coffee, if you don’t mind it being reheated.”

              If Loki was surprised by your offer, he masked the emotion quickly with a smirk. “Do you really trust me with coffee?”

              You giggled. “I don’t know. Can I?”

              “You shouldn’t trust me with anything,” he said, slipping into one of the seats at your kitchen table. “But I think we can make an exception just this once.”

              You sat and talked for nearly an hour, sipping your microwaved coffee as the rain pounded on the roof. Loki had plenty of quarantine stories from the Tower, stories that always seemed to end with Thor accidentally blowing something up.

              “He is not used to staying in such a limited space for this long of a time period,” he said reflectively. “I think perhaps confinement is having a detrimental effect on his intellect. Stark has installed a ‘Days Without an Accident’ count at the kitchen table, and thus far my brother has managed to reset it every day.”

              You snorted. “That sounds hilarious. I wish I was there to see that.”

              “No, you don’t. Everyone is fed up with everyone else.” Loki stared into his mug absently. “They have been starting altercations over the minutest details. It’s quite chaotic.”

              You frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to like chaos?”

              “When it’s within my control. This is far beyond that.” He took another sip, emptying it. “You are lucky to live alone. I would gladly welcome the peace you have here.”

              “I don’t know. There’s not much to do in here.” You held in a sigh. “It gets kind of depressing after a while.”

              Loki cocked his head, brow furrowed. “You are lonely?”

              Your cheeks heated with embarrassment. It was such a menial complaint to have, especially when so many others were suffering. “Kind of,” you muttered. “It’s not so bad, though.”

              Loki continued pressing. “You have access to communication, yes?” he asked, leaning forward. “I thought all of you mortals were addicted to your cellular devices.”

              “Yeah,” you replied slowly. “But it’s not the same thing as, you know, actually talking to someone. Like, when they’re actually there.”

              “I understand.” He reached out to set his mug on the table. Somewhere hidden under your smile, your heart sank. He’d be leaving soon.

               Loki cleared his throat. “If you would like,” he said, “I could pay you a visit every so often, as we are doing now.”

              What?

              “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you rushed to say, even though the thought of having a regular visitor sent your pulse thrumming.

              “No, but I think I would appreciate the respite. Today has been quite lovely, if I may say so.” He smiled— a genuine smile, not a smirk or a grin—and you felt rather silly for the way your heart seemed to soar. “Of course,” he added quickly, “if you don’t wish for my company, I completely—”

              “No!” The volume of your voice made you cringe. Jeez, he must think you haven’t spoken to anyone in months. “No, I—if you want to come over, then…” For a moment, you fumbled with your words, searching for an eloquent way to accept his offer. “I’d like that,” you finally said, giving up. “I’d like that a lot.”

              He laughed. “In that case, I’ll stop by tomorrow.” When he stood, you stood with him, following him back to your living room where he had left the groceries you hadn’t claimed. “I do need to be going now, though,” he said, scooping up the remaining bags. “The last thing I need is Stark having a fit over my failure to deliver his employees’ groceries on time.”  He nodded at you. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”

              “No problem,” you said. “Thanks for—thanks.”

              He chuckled. “Until tomorrow, my lady.”

              “Until tomorrow.”

              And just like that, he was gone. It was a noiseless disappearance: one moment he was there, the next, you were once again alone with the pouring rain. With a sigh, you made your way back to the couch, scooping up your book off the floor. Once again, however, you found your attention drifting to the water running down the window, the rushing waves of your street outside. Nothing had changed, and yet it seemed so much less frightening than it had an hour before. No, now, it was almost soothing. You had the sudden urge to run out on to your driveway and belt “Singin’ In the Rain.”

              I should’ve done that while Loki was here, you thought sleepily, pressing your cheek to the cushion. He would’ve gotten a kick out of that.

              Maybe you could, if it was still raining tomorrow.

              Tomorrow.

              You dozed off to the peaceful lullaby of the rainfall, smiling softly and thinking of tomorrow.

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