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ladykailitha · 2 months

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The Harrington Pattern Part 8

We have finally got to the part that started this whole story. Steve being validated by a professional.

Robin gets a pretty dress. And Eddie gets a little jealous.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

MY TAG LIST FOR THIS STORY IS CLOSED!!!!

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

****

Eddie joined them at the shop just as they were finishing up. Will used the extra ten he had to buy Steve a pretty little dagger that was mostly a letter opener, but Steve fell in love with it.

The dagger was silver with a moon in the hilt, the cross guard had moonstones on either side. It was nestled in a black velvet box that he was told he had to leave the dagger in and not pull it out while at the fair.

Steve promised he wouldn’t and turned around to nearly run right into Eddie.

“Whoa!” Eddie said, putting out his hands to steady Steve. “I didn’t realize I was that close to you.”

Steve blushed. “You get your schedule sorted for tomorrow?”

Eddie grinned. “Sure did, sweet thing. Will get his staff?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone so happy,” Steve said with a smile. He jutted his thumb behind him to where Will was happily chatting with the seller.

Eddie peered around Steve to see where he was pointing and sure enough, Will was talking to the guy about magical users in DND and how they should expand it to include other types.

Will spotted Eddie and said goodbye to the seller. He rushed over to where Steve and he were talking.

He held out the staff for Eddie to look at. “What do you think?”

Eddie and Steve shared a fond smile. “It looks great. Will the Wise has finally got a staff worthy of him.”

Will blushed.

“We should put it in Eddie’s van,” Steve suggested, “so it doesn’t get stolen.”

Eddie cocked his head to the side. “Why my van?”

“Because it won’t fit in my car,” he replied with a blush staining his cheeks and creeping up his ears.

Eddie cackled. “Fair enough, Stevie!” He looked around and spotted Gareth with an arm full of all sorts of wares, from swords and armor, to decorative goblets and boxes that no doubt held jewelry.

“Hey Gare!” he said following an ear piercing whistle.

The younger man lit up and jogged over to the trio.

“Hey, Ed!” Gareth said with a shit eating grin. “You like my haul?”

Eddie shook his head. “Sometimes I think your parents have more money than sense, but I’m not about to begrudge a well plotted haul.”

Gareth grinned. “Oh, they absolutely have more money than sense. I just know how to use that to my advantage.”

Will and Steve laughed with them.

Eddie pulled out his keys. “Since you’re clearly in need to be relieved of your loot or grow three extra arms, you should take Will to stash your stuff for later.”

Will’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s a great idea!”

Steve just shook his head fondly as he watched the two boys walk off chatting about their prizes.

“It’s nice to see Will come out of his shell around new people,” he said to Eddie. “He really needs friends outside of the Party.”

Eddie nodded. “And it helps that I forced them to be read in with Wayne because there was no way I was going to keep a secret that big with the people who are my family.”

They began their stroll through the other stalls, stopping here and there.

Steve spotted a clothing shop and armory and he sided eyed it longingly. There was no way he would the money for anything in that shop. He chewed his bottom lip and was about to move along, when Eddie grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward a black leather cloak.

Steve was admiring the construction when he heard a voice behind him say, “That’s a neat tunic, but you do know that you’re supposed to wear a chain shirt under that specific kind, right?”

Steve turned around to see a buxom red head in a bodice and flowing red dress. Her hair was piled messily on her head, but Steve could tell it was artfully done as the structure seemed too sound to be accidental.

“Can’t afford the see the armorer,” he said with a wink and a half shrug.

She laughed. “I guess I deserved that.”

Eddie smirked.

“I like your tunic,” the red head said, looking Steve up and down. Eddie bristled next to him. “Where did you get it from?”

Steve grinned, placing a comforting hand on Eddie’s elbow. “I made it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “No shit. Really?”

“Yes, he did,” Eddie defended. “He’s amazing.”

Steve flushed with pleasure at his praise. “I dabble. I’ve been sewing for about a decade now.”

She walked up to him and admired the stitching on the hem on the tunic. “That’s really impressive.”

“Thanks, I was admiring your work on the construction of the cloak here,” Steve said. “Was it hand sewn?”

“Fuck no!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t have time to breathe if I did that.” She smiled to have him join in on her joke. But when Steve continued looking at her in awe. “Wait...” she said, as it slowly dawned on her. “You did all of this by hand?”

She brought the hem of his tunic up to her face. Steve blushed and Eddie batted her hand away.

“Oi! Don’t get fresh!”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I think a name would be a good start before you go and get grabby,” he growled.

“Oh!” she said slapping her forehead. “Right, sorry! I’m Katie. I run Damsel in this Dress. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Steve and this is Eddie,” Steve said.

Eddie looked only slightly mollified and Steve rubbed his lower back soothingly. Eddie preened, leaning into the touch.

Steve cleared his throat. “But anyways, yeah I stitched it all by hand. My parents didn’t think a boy should ‘play’ with a sewing machine.” He put play in air quotes.

Katie’s eyes went wide and she looked back at the tunic hem in her hand. “But it’s so tight and even...”

Eddie grinned. “Isn’t he amazing?”

She looked over at him. “He do yours too?”

Steve shook his head. “No, not his.” He spotted Robin walking by. “But I see someone else’s outfit I worked on.”

“Robin!” he called out.

His soulmate came to a...well stop wouldn’t be quiet accurate as she kept in motion, flailing around a bit trying to regain her balance from her aborted step.

“Steve!” she called back and hurried over to him.

Katie looked her up and down. “You did her costume too?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow at Steve.

Robin grinned. “Hell yeah, he did! He’s awesome!”

Katie looked back and forth between them. “May I look?”

“Oh I know!” Eddie said cheerfully. “Why don’t they try on something of yours so that you can take a look at their costumes without you having to get all handsy.”

Robin raised an eyebrow at Eddie but turned gleefully to Katie. “That sounds like a great compromise.”

Katie cocked her head back and forth. “Could do, I suppose.”

Steve immediately went for the chain shirts, while Robin wandered around some.

“You’d look pretty in one of my corsets,” Katie said waiting for Steve to get out of the tunic to hand it to her.

Robin blushed. “Aren’t they like painful and gross?”

Katie laughed clear and bright. “Not really. For centuries they were the only form of support a women had. Now, there were tight lacing bodices and corsets, but that wouldn’t happen until much later.”

Robin chewed her bottom lip. She really liked the blue dress and the blue and gold corset. “Can I try on those?” She pointed to the ones she liked.

“What’s your bra size?” Katie asked pulling out the right size dress.

“Uh...” Robin said with a blush. “It’s not very...”

Katie nodded. “It’s fine. I think I’ve got the right one for you anyway, but if it’s too tight or too loose let me know and I’ll find a different size.”

Robin nodded and Steve came out of the dressing room to hand her his tunic.

Eddie let out a low whistle. “Looking good, Sir Stephen.”

Steve did a slow turn and both Eddie and Katie gave him appraising glances.

Robin peeked her head out form behind the curtain. “Um...help?”

Katie was immediately by her side. “What’s up?”

Robin walked out with the laces in her hands and corset not tied.

“Oh!” Katie said. “God, the heat must getting to my brain today. Odd’s Botkins!”

She grabbed laces and showed Robin how to lace it properly.

“How does fit?” she asked stepping back to admire her creation on Robin.

Robin grinned. “I never realized how much I slouched until just now.”

“Yeah,” Katie said with a laugh, “I hear that a lot.” She spun Robin around causing the skirt of the dress to billow out like water rippling in the breeze.

“Wow, Robbie,” Steve said in awe. “That’s gorgeous.”

Eddie hummed his agreement. “Looking good, Buckster!”

Robin squeaked and then dashed back into the dressing room. She came back out with the shirt Steve had altered for her.

Katie took the shirt and tunic and laid them both out on the counter where the cash box was.

“It’s literally seamless,” she said in awe. “And you did this by hand?”

Steve nodded. “But I’ve been doing it for years so...” He half shrugged.

“Hey, man,” Eddie huffed, “don’t diminish your awesomeness. This is hell of a job.”

Steve nodded, blush creeping back up on his cheeks again.

“What’s this?” Katie asked, tapping the embroidery on the hems of both pieces. It was a lovely little floral pattern that was off white on Robin’s shirt so that it blended in, but was a striking silver on Steve’s tunic.

Eddie leaned forward. “Oh, I never noticed that before.” He smiled widely at Steve. “It’s cute.”

Steve flushed even deeper, the red now covering his whole face. “It’s a little something I add to all of my designs. It’s a little signature if you will, so you’ll always know I made it.”

“A Harrington pattern?” Robin asked, leaning over to inspect the embroidery, too.

Steve nodded.

“Have you thought about selling your pieces?” Katie asked. “You could be making bank with these.” She lifted up the shirt to emphasize her point.

Steve shrugged. “Sure, but I wouldn’t have any idea where to sell them or who to sell them to.”

“I’ll sell them for you,” she said, “for a cut of the profits, of course. I sell at gaming and comic conventions, Ren fairs, sci-fi and fantasy conventions.”

Steve chewed on his lip. “I don’t make them very quickly. With them being all hand sewn.”

“Which makes it all the more valuable,” Katie insisted. “A hand sewn dress from a major clothing designer would be worth thousands, sweetie.”

Robin mouthed the word ‘thousand’ in shock.

Eddie pounded Steve on the shoulder. “Hell yeah! Just sell a couple of pieces every once in while and you’ll always having spending money.”

Steve thought it over and then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Katie and Robin cheered while Eddie and Steve shared a warm smile between them. A smile that sent butterflies through Steve’s chest. Eddie was always there for him.

Always.

Katie pulled out a business card. “Give me a call when you’ve got pieces you want to sell. And don’t leave off that signature either. Your Harrington Pattern as your friend called it.”

Steve took the card frowning. “But won’t that make it harder to sell? Especially the male stuff?”

She shook her head. “The people that buy this sort of thing are the last people that would care about a floral design, particularly since it would make it more authentic.”

He blinked and mouthed ‘oh’. She was right. “Yeah okay.” He lifted the card. “Thanks for this. I guess Robin and I better go change out of these so you can have them back.”

Katie shook her head. “Think of them as an investment in Steve Harrington’s clothing venture.” She lit up and dashed over to the cloaks. She grabbed the leather one that Eddie had been admiring and held it out to him.

“For you too.”

Eddie blinked, he wanted to turn it down and would have, had Steve not taken it and draped it on his shoulders.

The inside had a soft almost fur like material that was a slate grey. It would be too hot to wear in the summer, but in winter he would be outright toasty in it.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he was thanking her or Steve, but it didn’t really matter. He was grateful to both. He looked up at Robin.

“You’ll probably want to change out of yours, Robbie,” he said, carefully removing the cloak and draping it over his arm.

“Why’s that?” she asked with a pout.

A grin took over Eddie’s face. The mischievous one that always sent a lance of heat in Steve’s gut every time he saw it. “Because you’ll want to look rocking for the joust tomorrow.”

Katie grinned too. “That is an excellent idea, good sir!”

Robin seemed to agree because she grabbed her shirt and dashed back into the dressing room.

Steve was surprised she remembered the shirt, if he was honest.

Katie and Eddie helped him get the tunic over the chain shirt without snagging the cloth on the metal.

Robin came out mere seconds later with her prizes clutched to her chest.

“Thank you!” she squealed. “I can’t wait to wear it tomorrow!”

They all went to the parking lot to put away Eddie and Robin’s prizes. The cloak in the van, and the dress and corset in the trunk of Steve’s car.

Steve was grinning from ear to ear and couldn’t stop.

****

Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Damsel in This Dress is an actual Ren Faire staple from where I'm from.

Yup, still on my Gareth lives in Loch Nora agenda.

And while I don't ship Will/Gareth Will needs friends who aren't trauma bonded, you know?

MY TAG LIST FOR THIS STORY IS CLOSED!!!

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1@zerokrox-blog @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @danili666 @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @vecnuthy @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @dragonmama76 @scheodingers-muppet @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @thespaceantwhowrites @paintgonewrong @mogami13 @beelze-the-bubkiss @croatoan-like-its-hot @retro-vagabond @sani-86 @pansexuality-activated @y4r3luv @dauntlessdiva @vampire-eddie-brain-rot @lololol-1234 @nightmareglitter

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #steve is a history nerd

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fluffypotatey · 2 years

Note

Squires being named after older knights/relatives is definitely plausible and not at all uncommon, considering there's, like, three Isoldes and four or five Elaines, and that's why people had epithets or bynames like "Bors the Elder" and "Bors the Younger" or "Elaine of Astolat" and "Elaine of Corbenic."

So we have Lucan the Observant, Nathan the Uppity, Bedivere the Smaller, and Roland the Stabby (yes to Galahad being Lancelot's favourite squire) and may I also put forth for consideration:

Gareth and Gaheris, twin brothers who regularly switch knights and are still waiting for someone to notice.

Dagonet, simultaneously the funniest and meanest mf in the squad, he will Vicious Mockery your ass into dust, try him, and knock your teeth out if that doesn't work.

Andred, (who is totally not related to Tristan, whaaat??, and definitely wasn't snuck in by Elyan, nooooo) who has absolutely taught his bros how to pick locks and pockets and steals Agravaine's stuff all the time.

And Loholt, who...may or may not be a Druid??? Nobody's really sure, they've never seen a tattoo, but it might be somewhere private, who knows? Again. Not their problem. And he's fun.

anon making me open old notes of mine at 7 in the morning dw this is not an inconvenience ily <3

i see your gareth and gaheris twins and raise you gwaine and leon are the only knights who notice. gwaine encourages the switching and even helps in confusing his other knights for the fun of it. leon is too tired to handle something as minor as a stunt like this, so he let's them off scott free. (lucan calls it nepotism because they're his little cousins, but gaheris tells him to shove it and stop being jealous).

bedivere, aka beddy, aka the baby of the group. he abuses his title as the youngest and the squires hate/love him for it. they got themselves into trouble? beddy bats his eyes and the knight don't lecture them too much. training is more grueling? beddy only does half of it because percival felt bad ("HOW DARE HE MESS WITH SIR PERCY'S BLEEDING HEART!!!" "roland let it go" "NEVER HE WILL RUE THE DAY--")

andred sends correspondence letters for elyan and the letters are just him rambling on about his life as a knight to tristan and isolde. tristan is conflicted because he's proud of his surrogate son but also upset that he's a knight of all things. although alternate idea: elyan takes andred in after the s4 finale because tristan is wracked with grief and cannot care for andred the way he and isolde used to, so elyan offers to take the boy in and raise him to be someone they can be proud of and T^T

dagonet and nathan are rivals

nuff said

we also have feirefiz a squire from a distant land who is somehow related to percival but the specifics are hazy. everytime the kid talks about his homeland it only adds to the mystery and confusion because "did you say you had a sword made from diamonds????" "yes, yes, the sword is an heirloom, what's not clicking."

BORS MY BELOVED he worships the ground lancelot walks in and wishes to be the best squire to ever squire. he is ruthless with his pranks and some squires question where his ideas come from.

#i kiss anon on both hands reverently like one would a queen #here's a token of my favor *throws headcanons*#squires of the round table #i would add galahaut but he is not a squire #that man is a whole ass king and rival to arthur + love interest to lancelot #squires play matchmaker with the two because lancelot deserves HAPPINESS DAMN YOU #maybe they also nudge merlin with them as well because the three would make a cute trio #bbc merlin #headcanon #headcanons #i would show you my notes but it's just me screaming so i'd rather not

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shimmershae · 3 years

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My thoughts on Episode 6--On the Inside

Very appropriate title by the way. Works in a multitude of ways.

As always, my randomness is going beneath a cut again to spare the eyeballs of those of you that don’t want to see it at all and also? Help those of you that have somehow stayed spoiler-free in this brand-new age of early release episodes. It is still so wild to me that I’m a full episode ahead of half the fandom. I don’t know what I’m going to do when we get to the final episode and they decide to make us all suffer together--because somehow I do feel they will do exactly that after spoiling us for the first 23 episodes. It is going to be agonizing.

Anyway. Without further ado, Shae’s stream of consciousness review (of sorts).

Not fair, Angela. Opening the episode with that shot of that big ass spider. I hate those suckers. So naturally, they’re an easy sell for setting the horror scene to me, lol.

Okay. Who the hell’s chasing Virgil and Connie? Walker No-See-Ums?

Barely a minute in and the atmosphere for this episode is moody AF.

What is this? Tara Jr. The Walking Dead? LOL. Where’s the Scarlett for this mini plantation house? Anyway. First three minutes of this episode? Just as attention grabbing as the first five episode openings this season. I don’t think people out there are giving our writers enough love for that. Every episode so far has opened like a mini movie.

With the way the Walking Dead logo keeps crumbling away with each successive episode, somehow it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Carol and Daryl spinoff was eventually titled The Living and had flowers growing out of each letter, lol. I mean, there would be a certain sort of life-affirming symmetry in a show that’s been promised to be much lighter in tone doing just that.

More Carol and Aaron? Yes, please. I don’t necessarily like Carol staying at home and sitting the sidelines like a figurative happy little homemaker in the B story while the rest of the mains are trying like hell to sell the A story, but if she’s going to be totally prohibited from the main storyline until it’s time to blow shit up? I’m going to continue enjoy getting to see her do what she should have been doing for seasons--interacting with others in the community, especially Aaron and the ladies.

Truly. I really am loving my girl getting some quality Aaron and Rosita time. It’s so long overdue.

Bless sweet Kelly. Riding off to her sister’s rescue.

Why isn’t Lydia shown as part of these plans? For someone that could barely read last season, I doubt that big ass map was a piece of cake for her and it’s all just guesswork anyway without her guidance. I mean, why does it feel like they are cutting some of this stuff that might not seem like much plot-wise but would go a long way toward establishing different character beats? Personally, I would have loved to see her involved in the search and sharing scenes again with Carol and bonding with Kelly.

Virgil be having that “I always feel like somebody’s watching me” feeling. Don’t you hate that, lol?

“You haven’t slept in days.” But how many days, Virgil? I’m going to need a number because I’m confused AF about this timeline at this point. What we’re seeing and what different pieces of dialogue is telling us is not exactly lining up. I’m going to find it awful hilarious if it hasn’t even been two weeks since the cave in. For reasons.

Connie’s spidey senses are clearly tingling.

Alrighty, then. She’s clearly got PTSD. Understandable. They’ve all had it. Some have been treated more sympathetically than others, though.

I mean, it never seems to cross anybody’s mind how Carol probably sees Henry’s head on that pike, Mika’s pale and bloody body, Lizzie crumpled face down in a bed of yellow flowers, Sophia with a smoking bullet hole through her undead head whenever she closes her eyes but whatever.

Okay though. But what if Connie had really shitty, impossible to read handwriting? AKA doctor’s handwriting. What then?

Leah’s face honestly twists my insides whenever I see it, lol. It’s quiet a visceral thing. No, that does not make me a horrible person. Not everybody wants or has to drink the awesome, great, redeemable villainess Kool-Aid. IMHO, she’s got a face meant for a Walker. Perfect makeover idea. Eh. Mostly it’s her expression and the deadness of her eyes.

Anyway. Why is it always the fingers? Eff that.

Listen. If ya’ll can’t tell Daryl’s conflicted AF with the situation he’s landed in, you don’t know how to read NR’s face and eyes. He’s not a masterclass like MMB but he’s pretty darn good when he wants to be.

I honestly feel sorry for Redshirt Frost.

“You do what you gotta do.” Frost knows what’s what and he’s willing to walk the walk for Maggie. Impressive loyalty. I’m left wondering how the current, colder incarnation of Maggie inspired it because I’m still struggling to see it. Anywho. My point is the dude knows the score and just gave Daryl the okay.

Daryl taking off his angel vest before stepping into the role of torturer/interrogator=him shedding the persona/the man Judith and RJ and Lydia and Carol know him to be. Pushing away his man of honor status so he can just survive somehow.

Pope never quits chewing whatever the hell he’s got in his mouth. It’s kind of distracting.

Ohhh. We’re back to the Haunted Mansion. I mean house. Where are the Hitchhiking Ghosts?

All the eyes scratched out of those creepy pictures=spooky.

The good old fogged up bathroom mirror shot. Somebody’s been watching and studying their horror movies, lol. Not gonna lie though. I’m legit bracing myself for the jump scares I know have to be coming.

I’m loving the music/score in these scenes.

Truthfully, I could care less about these Reapers. But they are hella attractive, lol. Listen. Angela knows what she’s doing.

Kelly’s horse is so pretty. Prayer chain for that baby.

More dead horses? Why?

Connie’s slingshot? Sorry. I maintain, no matter how much I like these two, that they have the lamest weapons ever. Endless supply of Virginia rocks or not.

So. Did Virgil and Connie enjoy a little equine for dinner? Did they kill it before the Walkers fed? What monsters! Yeah, no. Not if they were starving even if I personally could not have. The more probable story is they fled the camp in a panic and left the horse behind and then it went down. Sorry. I didn’t exactly study the wounds on the poor animal because it is so traumatizing to me to continue to see them meet such dastardly ends on this show. I don’t know who the hell has such a score to settle with horses but stop it.

Days. It’s only been days. Not weeks. So many times with all that Daryl and Company have had to contend with since the cave in? Those do not exist, lol. They’re just a convenient, appeasing piece of dialogue thrown at a fanbase primed and ready to read everything into not much of anything. There’s just not been enough time for it to happen unless Daryl has literally been up 24/7 for all of them. You know, strategizing how to attack the remainders of Alpha’s horde, figuring out how to defend Hilltop before it fell, healing from the wound he sustained at Alpha’s hand, sitting on that log all damn night with Negan waiting on Carol to come home, having a lover’s quarrel with his best damn everything, taking care of the Grimes babies and Lydia, being the reluctant leader. Kang, why you playing them like that? Daryl’s a super guy but he’s not a superhuman with clones. So many times my ass.

Seriously. Who been watching Connie and Virgil? The MIA Oceansiders? Beta’s Fee Fi Fo Fum Ghost?

Nice. A Michonne mention. Maybe the truth will start to trickle out.

LMAO at Connie’s “I’m not staying here.” Me neither, girl. I would be outta that house so fast.

They really “Quiet Placing” this episode. Honestly? I’m kinda loving it.

WTF was that? I know she can’t hear but you telling me all the little hairs on her arms, legs, and neck didn’t stand the fuck up and say fuck this shit, I’m gone? Pardon my language, lovelies, but that moment had my heart kicking up several beats.

Okay, okay. To be fair to Connie, every hair on her body been doing that since the front door closed. Maybe they’re desensitized.

Gollum’s chasing Connie!!! He/She wants their Precious!!!

The knee jerk reactions about this episode sight unseen are OTT, honestly. And I mean no disrespect by saying that. I can understand completely where they’re coming from because we’ve been burned so long in this fandom. But it’s obvious the spoiler source has their particular biases and reads into things in such a way that don’t line up with what’s actually being shown onscreen. Daryl’s loyalty in this episode and all along quite clearly lies with his family and his community. He’s been playing Leah since the start and is truly just trying to survive somehow.

Awful thought. The Reaper that’s so suspish of Daryl--haven’t quite caught his name or really cared to. I feel like he might try to get to Daryl somehow. When he realizes that Daryl cares no more for Leah than any human would care for somebody (they thought) they used to know? He’s going after Dog. Or Carol should she finally join this story.

I refuse to believe Carol isn’t going to be a part of this story. Because they messing with her mans, lol.

“You’re ever with us or you’re not.” Now where have I heard those words before? I wish I could find that Daryl gif because that had to be one of the funniest things ever, lol.

Unrealistic suggestion to Daryl, Leah? Breathing oxygen seems to piss off Carver. Oh look. He finally has a name for me, lol.

I love how all three of the ladies--Carol, Magna, and Rosita--look at Kelly with such indulgent, adoring “little sis, you alright?” eyes.

They are seriously the most beautiful quartet of characters. I mean all of them are lovely but Carol and Rosita this season? Ugh. The unfairness of the pretty.

Human bones. Terminus callback, lovelies. How it all would have eventually gone down if Gareth and Co. hadn’t met the business end of Rick’s red machete.

So many horror movie homages in this one.

Virgil’s like “let’s leave this Texas Chainsaw Massacre behind.”

Connie and Virgil have obviously bonded, ya’ll. I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying their scenes together when the character mostly got on my nerves with Michonne. He’s a good actor and the core of his character is sympathetic, but I’m not going to lie. I wasn’t super enthused when he was the one that rescued Connie because I didn’t know how their scenes would play out. But there’s a nice synergy there.

Okay. Does Carver want Leah for himself? Because I’m sure Daryl at this point would love to scream “take her, I know where I fucking belong!”

Daryl’s digging in deep because Carver has shown him Leah’s potential weak spot. Nuance is truly lost on some people, LMAO. He cares about Leah as a human being probably. He’s Daryl, after all. The sweet one. But he sees her as his way outta this and he’s going to exploit it.

It’s nice to have a silent Negan for once, lol. I can pretend he didn’t take my baby Glenn away from me and enjoy JDM’s pretty.

So. These cannibal people were the watchers? Hmm.

I’m really digging Virgil 2.0. Yeah. Nobody’s surprised more than me.

Sweet, sweet scene between Virgil and Connie. His determination to reunite her with her family brings back the sympathy I felt for him when he told Michonne “I promised her flowers. Every day.”

Damn. How many of those creepy crawly cannibals are there?

How brave of Connie to confront her fears to save someone she’s obviously grown to care about.

The Kelly/Connie reunion gave me chills and made me cry. Thank fuck Angela didn’t cheapen that moment by having it focus on literally anybody else. Kelly is the most important person in the whole world to Connie and vice versa. Just like Carol is the most important person in the whole world to Daryl and vice versa. Angela fucking knows. Everybody does. Except the people busy building castles out of sand while the waves of Carol’s and Daryl’s converging stories keep crashing closer and closer to shore.

Such a beautiful moment given to us by Angel Theory and Lauren Ridloff. So authentic and sweet. Kelly and Connie are home to each other.

Poor Frost. That’s all I gotta say about that.

WTF, though. Was Mel just not available or what? I want to see more of the ASZ characters that I care about, not the Reapers. Like I’d be fine with the story if all the characters not named Maggie, Negan, or Daryl weren’t surviving on crumbs during it. Especially the 2nd billed actress on the entire show. Angela. Please. Fix this.

One last WTF. Seriously. WTF has Maggie done to inspire Pope’s obsession? It better be juicy after all this shit.

Overall impression of the episode--

One of my favorites of the season so far. The horror aspects were fantastic, IMHO. I truly didn’t expect to like Connie and Virgil’s scenes as much together so that was a nice surprise. She got the reunion that felt most true and earned for the character and her story and I thank Angela from the bottom of my heart for that.

I would have loved more Carol but I always want more Carol. I’m okay with her taking a backseat because ultimately? This was Kelly’s moment with her sister. Carol and Connie will eventually have their time to sit down and talk. And pick back up their blossoming friendship because I truly do not feel Connie blames Carol at all.

I do wish Lydia had been included with the girl group. Last episode felt like it was leading up to that.

The Reaper storyline continues to be the weakest link because every time we see them the dialogue and interactions feel totally recycled from the time previous. I feel like it would have totally been helped by a tighter focus and less stretching out because 8 episodes of this is really diluting what I feel like Angela and Co. are going for. I’m not here for Leah being redeemed or being a bigger focus in any of the episodes because she does nothing of interest for me. I’m just peeking in on that story for the Daryl of it all.

Speaking of the Daryl? You lovelies out there gotta stop taking that spoiler source’s recaps at face value because it’s obvious to me at least that there’ some bias at work. Every action and word coming from Daryl is coming from a place of loyalty to his family and wanting to protect them, no matter how he has to dirty his hands. Leah is just a means to his ultimate end. She’s not his future. She never was. His future’s already spoken for and 2023 can’t get here soon enough. But like Daryl, we have to just survive somehow.

Oh goodie. More Maggie and Negan next episode and looks like no real follow up on Connie and the ASZ reunions. Hopefully, this is yet another instance of the previews being deceiving but I’m not holding my breath.

Until later, lovelies.

Hope my word vomit didn’t bore you too much.

#The Walking Dead #Season 11 #TWD spoilers #things that make me smile and cry #for reasons #ignore all the typos #with something this longwinded?#LOL #there's bound to be plenty

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frostsinth · 4 years

Text

Royal Flush - Pt. 1

The prologue to this story can be found HERE. I plan to redo/redesign the picture at some point. UPDATE: Redid the picture HERE

A new story (because fuck me, that’s why). This time between a Goblin King, and a young human Prince. Something new and fresh I hope you will all fancy. And hopefully a line up for another fic I have planned for the future.

As always, please visit my MasterList to see my other works, and feel free to BuyMeACoffee while you are there. If you have any prompts, ideas, thoughts, or insane ramblings, I love to hear from you. Please send me all the notes, tags, asks, or DMs your little hearts desire.

Enjoy!

“… Nikostratus, I… I know you are ...conflicted,” He started, and I felt my blood run hot again at his words, “But that is no reason-”

“My life is doomed to misery, regardless of what end,” I snapped at him, anger lacing every word, cutting him off, “… At least this way, Morgana will have a chance at finding happiness.”

He fell silent, his face a mask of horror, and I turned back to face the Goblin King. Stepping forward, I placed one arm over my chest, then bent at the waist. Bowing deeply to him.

“Your Majesty, I agree to your proposal.”

“I am humbled, and honored,” The Goblin King replied, and I could hear the smirk in his voice, even as I kept my eyes on the ground beneath me. “Come, we can discuss the details further in my private study… alone.”

I stiffened slightly at his request. But realized that the word he stressed was less suggestive and more… cold? As I slowly raised from my bow, I saw his scarlet eyes glaring harshly over my shoulder. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, and tightened my jaw. Resisting the urge to look back at my guard. Knowing now exactly whom that tone had been for and not imagining I would enjoy the expression waiting behind me.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The King gestured for me to follow him, leading the way across the floor to a door set into the side of the great chamber. With my will steeled, I followed after. If Gareth attempted to follow as well, I did not know. Nor what would become of him, left alone upon my exit with the Goblin King. And with the anger at his words still hot in my blood at that moment, I didn’t care.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” I tried not to mumble as he held the door open for me.

“Please, call me Grier. Assuming all goes well, we are to be married soon, after all.” I couldn’t help but wince at the word, and my mouth felt dry. I saw his scarlet eyes flicker to me at their corners. “And what are you comfortable with being called, Your Highness?”

I hesitated, unable to resist flinching ever so slightly as the door clunked closed behind us. “My name is Nikostratus, if it pleases you, Your Majesty.”

“Grier.” He corrected, and led the way down the smaller side hallway. I hardly took notice of my surroundings, feeling hollow and numb. “And it matters not if it pleases me. It is your name, no? Though I will admit it is a bit of a mouthful.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure how to answer. The weight of it all was suddenly dropping onto me, and I felt my palms clasped behind my back growing sweaty. I swallowed, tightening my jaw. There was still much to discuss before the arrangement could be finalized. I had to keep my head level, for the sake of my people. I could not let the goblins take more than an inch in negotiations. Couldn’t let myself be razzled by whatever life I had just signed myself up for. It was entirely possible that had been his intent! Perhaps the entire ‘marriage’ would be an endless attempt to manipulate me into breaking; to gain the upper hand. Just how far would a goblin be willing to go for one of their pranks? An arranged marriage certainly didn’t seem out of that scope. Would it lead up to the ceremony? Beyond?

“Do you have any other names you like to go by?” He pressed, opening a grand carved oak door and standing back to allow me to enter first. I stiffened, but nodded appreciatively and stepped past him as quickly as I could. “A nickname? Or perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I choose a term of endearment for you?” His voice was light and teasing, but it made a chill run down my spine. “Perhaps ‘sweetheart’ or ‘dear’. I have always liked the term ‘pet’, though I believe it would be ill suited for our… situation.”

I swallowed hard again, grinding my teeth quietly as I stopped before the grand desk in the room. I turned my head slightly to watch him saunter around to the other side after closing the large door behind himself.

“I prefer Nikostratus.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound too dry.

His crooked smirk didn’t lighten the burden of my nerves, nor allow me any relief from the notion this whole mess was simply some ploy. Some elaborate goblin mischief. But he didn’t sit in the ornate chair behind the desk as I had anticipated. Instead, he gathered up an inkwell, a handful of quills, and a roll of parchment and brought it over to the overly plush chairs set before the grand fireplace of the room.

I used that moment to take stock of the study for the first time since entering. It was large, with tall stone bookshelves filled to bursting with old tomes. The smell of their ancient parchment as well as the smoke from the fire in the large fireplace suffused the room. There were assorted knick knacks dotting every available surface, from a golden astrolabe to a pristinely painted globe and even a silver sundial propped against one wall. Aside from the huge desk and plush pair of armchairs, there was a small marble table before the fire, and a silver cart piled with various shaped decanters and glasses. The entire room was disheveled and cluttered, with heaps of parchments and quills strewn about, tomes left half opened with numerous different things from ribbons to dried flowers tucked between their pages, and the evidence of projects started but never completed.

The study was also vehemently colored, with no two fabrics matching another. There were glittering crystalline mobiles and diagrams and draped scarves dangling from the rafters. Various pillows in different shapes, colors, and sizes pooled off the armchairs onto the floor which was covered with several overlapping carpets that absolutely had no unifying color scheme. It was overwhelming, and I couldn’t help but cast an apprehensive eye about as he settled in one of the two chairs facing each other.

“Are you hungry?” He offered, simply sweeping whatever had been on the small marble table onto the floor with a clatter to make space for his parchment and quills. “Perhaps some tea? I believe I have heard humans like tea.”

It took me a breath to realize he had spoken to me. When his red eyes lifted to my face, I straightened sharply, but shook my head.

“No, Your Majesty, thank you.”

He scoffed, waving one green skinned hand. “Grier.” He corrected me again. “Now sit. We have much to discuss if we want to have a proper marriage contract drawn up tonight.”

I let out my breath slowly between tight lips. I could do this. Write up a marriage contract. A peace contract, rather. I knew how to negotiate. How to write contracts. And I needed to make sure the terms were in my kingdom’s best interest. Slowly, I walked over, glancing down at the plush chair facing his briefly before lowering myself into it. I sat at the very edge so as not to disturb the large quantity of odd shaped pillows there. This would be easier if I just was careful not to remember it was my marriage contract.

“Now then, down to business,” He drew up his quill, scribbling a long, over flourished sentence at the top of the parchment. “And I would urge you to speak your mind here, my young Prince. We must be able to forgo formalities and niceties if we are to complete a formidable and agreeable contract.” He dabbed a note. “As discussed, removal of my soldiers from your kingdom is first.”

I nodded, eyeing him as his long fingers deftly maneuvered the quill into forming short, neat little letters. “We will need to redefine the borders between the two kingdoms as well.”

One thin eyebrow raised, and he glanced up at me through pale lashes. “However do you mean?”

I placed my hands on my knees, back still ramrod straight. “The skirmishes over the last decade have allowed disputed territories to fall into your control. We would need them returned.” I cocked my head ever so slightly to the side. “As a sign of your good faith.”

He tsked, but seemed amused. “You will find I have treated your citizens quite admirably while they were beneath my occupation.” His quill scratched across the page. “Perhaps they may not wish to return.”

I paused, but decided it was just an effort on his part to get a rise out of me. “Never-the-less… They will be returned. And our borders will become defined and respected.”

A soft ‘hrumph’, and he leaned back in his chair, re-reading what he had just written. “Very well… though perhaps I was under the misinformation that our kingdoms would become united with our marriage? Forming into one?”

I resisted the urge to flinch at his words, feeling my knuckles clench slightly with the effort. “A kingdom cannot have two Kings. Royal marriages unify countries, but they do not become a single kingdom. Borders are open, allowing for trade and travel ease for citizens, as well as lower taxes for goods produced.” My voice sounded hollow and distant, even to my own ears. “There is also the expectation of allied forces, should a conflict arise for either kingdom.”

“My kingdom will.” He mused, penning a note.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Have two Kings,” He glanced up at me, his crooked smirk forming again, “My Kingdom will. Unless I have your future title wrong. Would you perhaps remain a Prince by human customs?”

I felt heat rising around the edge of the collar of my shirt. “The title is not important.”

The goblin sat up taller in his seat. “It is important.” He insisted. “I want to be sure you, as well as your people, are comfortable with all terms of this contract. These are terms of peace, not surrender.”

Then why doesn’t it feel that way? I wondered quietly, but otherwise didn’t comment further. Clamping my lips shut. I reminded myself again why I was doing this; for my people. For Morgana. He waited for me to speak for a moment, his red eyes locked on my face. For my part, I made a point to focus on the fireplace.

“Alright,” He relented finally, impatient, “You tell me. What title would you have? If this was a contract between humans, hm?” He twirled the quill nimbly between his fingers. “I want to be sure to use the proper terms, so there is no confusion.”

My hands slowly curled into fists on my knees. “The title is not important.”

He sighed impatiently. “Oh come now. If it’s not important, then it should be simple enough to answer, yes?” He twirled the quill again, and my eyes darted to it from their corners. “If this was a marriage contract between a human Prince and a human King, upon their marriage, what title-”

“There is no such thing,” I snapped, cutting him off as my temper flared, “Of a marriage between a Prince and a King. It does not matter what title you choose, the concept is abhorrent to my people, and the marriage will never-” I stopped short, closing my eyes and slowly letting my breath out through my nose. “...While it will be accepted as a valid and legally binding contract of peace… It will never be accepted as a true marriage.”

A tense silence stretched between us, and for a long moment, I feared I had ruined everything. That he would no longer feel an arranged marriage between us would hold the same weight. I felt the sinking dread that the loss of my temper had doomed my sweet little sister. Or perhaps my entire kingdom. For certainly such a slight would never have been permitted in our court. A proposed marriage contract that was not a recognized marriage? Unacceptable. I sat with my eyes closed, my lips in a tight line, trying to steady my breathing. To regain my composure.

“... If I have misjudged you,” He began slowly, his previous arrogance and teasing gone from his tone, “... Or if I have been misinformed as to your… preferences...” I may have winced at the words, but I was clenched far too tight to notice “-We do not have to go forward with this contract. I will not sign anything without the clear consent of both parties.”

I slowly opened my eyes, keeping them firmly focused on the table beside me. Not daring to lift my gaze to his, though I felt his own boring into my skull. He sat silently, perhaps expecting an answer. But I did not have the strength to give it just yet. My fists were clenched so tight they were nearly white. For all his words… he didn’t seem to understand. There were no other options for me. We had to go forward with this contract. For the sake of everything I held dear. And yet, to do so meant … I struggled to keep my growing emotions in check.

“... I will expect this to be a marriage,” He informed me after the brief pause, his tone growing harsh, almost angry, “With all things that come with that. Including its consummation.” I did wince now, and internally kicked myself for doing so. “And I will not enter into a marriage where I am required to rape my partner-”

“Enough.” I boldly cut him off again, shaking my head. My voice quivering with my own anger at his vulgar yet casual language regarding such an intimate topic.

He paused again, giving me another moment to take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. His voice, when he did speak again, was flat, but firm. And I recognized its authoritative nature. I was reminded again why this man, short of all his other faults and no matter his species, was a King of a powerful people.

“Am I wrong, Prince Nikostratus, in my judgement of you?”

I felt as a child, being scolded by their elder, and my throat was dry for that sake alone. I would have to admit it, I realized. I would have to admit it out loud, for the first time in my life. I would have to face a reality I had consigned myself to deny and carry with me to my grave. I was a Prince, after all. And a secondborn Prince at that. I would never have the power or freedom to act as I wanted; I would always be held to the responsibility of my station. The necessities of my kingdom. And despite everything, despite the deep longing I had always held to be able to love whomever I wished… I found my lips faltering to form the words.

Part of me believed it was a trick still. Some long, drawn out plan of humiliation. Of shame. Of deceit meant to ruin my honor and reputation among my people. To expose me to my family. I felt the familiar rage bubbling up inside me, and clenched my jaw in an effort to quell it. All the while, I felt his red eyes still staring at me. Waiting for the answer I had prepared myself never to give.

“... Make no mistake, Your Majesty,” I began slowly, my voice soft but hard, “If there is one thing I am sure of in this world… it is that I love my little sister with every fiber of my being. And I would do everything in my power to protect her from the evils of this world.” Carefully, I raised my gaze to meet his. “Whatever face that may take.” He opened his mouth, but I jerked my hand sharply up to keep him from speaking, lest I lose my nerve. “I understand what I am agreeing to. I understand fully what will be... expected of me. And whatever my… “ I dropped off, struggling to find what I wanted to say. I winced at the first word that came to mind, for I hated it most of all. But spat it out bitterly none-the-less. “... conflictions may be, I enter this contract with full consent. I beg your indulgence that this is enough for you for now.”

I was proud that I never broke eye contact with him as I spoke. His startlingly red eyes watched me unblinkingly, and even as I finished, he stared. Turning my words over in his head. I felt sweat beading at the base of my neck, but maintained his gaze. Stubbornly resisting the urge to turn away or drop my eyes from his.

“If I hear what you’re saying in regards to your people,” He returned finally, and I let out a little gust of air I didn’t know I had been holding, “Then I can hardly blame you for struggling to… accept our situation, such as it is.” He drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. “But you are sure? Once we move forward with this contract, there will be no turning back.”

I nodded without hesitation, and I saw his smirk return to the corners of his mouth. “I am sure.”

“You will be King Consort, then,” He replied, picking up his quill again, “As is the custom for my people.” He scribbled a few lines quickly before continuing. “Your authority will be more or less equal to mine, but the difference in title allows for differentiation when referring to us.” His long nose twitched as his smirk returned to its full strength. “Pronouns can be tricky in such situations.”

“...I can imagine” I said dryly, finally letting my gaze drop.

“And since you are sure, perhaps we should move on to the more domestic qualities of the contract, yes? Now, how many children?”

I blinked stupidly, my eyes jumping back up to him in surprise. “...Eh?”

“How many children?” His voice was light and cheery, and I saw the mischievous glint in his eyes that left me quite annoyed. “I’ve always wanted a large family, but I am flexible on the matter.”

“...You’re joking.”

“Hardly.” He twirled the quill again. “As King, I am expected to provide an heir. There are several options available to us, but it is best we make these decisions now. Just to be certain we are on the same page and have the same expectations. It avoids arguments down the line.”

I struggled to keep my composure, and saw his smirk grow by a few molars at the sight. “What… what are the options?”

“Well, we could adopt, of course.” He mused, tapping one long finger against his angular chin. “Or we could hire a surrogate.”

“Surrogate?” I echoed, dumb founded. I had never heard of such a term before.

He nodded, eyes shimmering with delight. “Yes! A female to carry our offspring. Typically of good stock; the screening process is quite vigorous. We can each lay with her and let the die be cast in whatever way it may land. Or, with your consent, I will impregnate her-”

“Wh-whichever.” I blurted quickly, feeling my face growing hot. I hated how easily he managed to keep me off balanced, and each slip of my composure left me feeling guiltier than the last and more determined to maintain it.

“Ah, but then there is of course the magical route.” He continued, almost gleefully ignoring my reaction to the less savory parts of the second option which had the blush rising to my cheekbones despite my efforts.

“The… the what?”

“The magical route.” He repeated, steepling his hands together with a grin. “A simple, temporary spell that allows one of us to impregnate the other and carry our progeny to term-”

“You’re making that up!” I snapped despite myself, feeling my face flush even more.

He pretended to look much more appalled than I was certain he was. “I would never! Producing an heir is a very important matter which I take with the utmost seriousness!”

I struggled again to return to the stoic face of a stately Prince I had perfected over the course of my life. But his words had my thoughts reeling, and I couldn’t help my mouth dropping open slightly. Looking pleased with himself, he stood, walking over to the cart of drinks.

“I am parched. Would you like something? Or I can send for tea if you prefer?”

I managed to close my mouth, staring at the seat he had vacated for a long moment. I heard the clinking of glass, and cleared my suddenly dry throat.

“...Brandy. If you have it.” I rasped, my voice strained.

His laughter was almost melodic, and I heard the continued clinks as he dolled out a second glass. “Excellent choice, my young Prince.” He purred, returning with both drinks in hand. “I see we are a perfect match on that front.”

I took the glass numbly, sniffing the amber liquid instinctually. I was surprised to find it seemed of higher quality, and sipped it experimentally. Grier took his seat once more, crossing one leg over the top of the other.

“Now, which method do you prefer?” He mused, taking a sip from his own glass.

I nearly choked on my second sip, and sputtered momentarily. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye to see his crooked grin. I shook my head, swallowing the burning liquid.

“...Umm, wh-whichever.” I almost winced at the improperness of my stuttering speech, gritting my teeth.

He raised one slender eyebrow, smirking. “Even the third? I hear it is quite the experience.”

I took another hurried sip of the brandy. “...Maybe not that one.”

He laughed again, and I felt my ears burning. I turned, focusing on the fire, watching the flames lick and pop. Trying to ignore the feeling of his eyes on me. Trying to distance myself from the idea of raising children of all things with this creature sat across from me. He’s just trying to get a rise from you, I told myself. Always, constantly. Poking and prodding. Trying to gain the upper hand in negotiations. Amused by my discomfort.

“We’ll write a ‘to be determined’ for now.” He declared, picking up the quill once more. “But we’ll discuss it again later.”

I snuck a peek at him while he wrote, studying him out the corner of my eye. His wild hair fell about his sharp features, and the way the light hit his green-grey skin it seemed almost warm to the eye. I found myself wondering at the thought of spending a life with him. Wondered what it would be like beyond this room. Beyond this evening. I took another steadying sip of brandy, pretending my hand wouldn’t be shaking if it hadn’t held the glass.

“How many then?” He pressed, glancing up at me. “I believe six is a good number. Even, but manageable. Yes?”

I looked down at the amber liquid in my hands. “I-I…” I dropped off, shaking my head, steadying my voice, “I had never thought about it.”

“Why ever not?” He quipped, dipping the tip to scribble another note.

I didn’t answer him, but felt my brow furrow. Of course, the real reason was because I had never expected to be able to choose. Had never expected to be married, and if I was, I would be grateful to be able to conceive at all. My marriage prospects had always been slim; the likelihood was of me being paired with a widowed partner whose late husband’s lands were in dispute, or an elderly monarch whose wealth would be our greatest asset. Whatever would best benefit the Kingdom. It didn’t matter the partner, not like my older brother’s, just what she would bring to the table. Therefore, planning children had simply never really been a thought of mine. And now that it was? I wasn’t sure what to think of it. Had no basis for what I wanted. Had no basis for what would be expected of me as a parent, nor how I would feel being so fully responsible for another life. My lips tightened, and I found myself at a loss for words again.

“Hmmm. Six it is then. But we’ll see where the tides take us when the time comes.” I almost sighed with relief that he let the matter go. A few more soft scratches. “Alright, lovers is next on my list.”

Again, I sputtered, nearly choking on the brandy halfway down my throat. “Lovers??”

He nodded, looking up at me with a coy twist on his thin lips. “Yes. Traditionally, human Kings take lovers I believe. But goblins tend to be monogamous in marriage, unless previously agreed before the ceremony. Do you wish to be allowed to take lovers?”

Again, it was simply not something I had ever considered. Nor had the foggiest notion of how to approach. Certainly it was not a concept boldly discussed in any capacity, regardless of the fact that it was common knowledge. High society dictated such things be carefully and politely ignored. Not discussed over a marriage contract. He waited, tapping his finger against the quill. Watching my face. I swore he was enjoying himself.

I shook my head. “I… I have no desire to…” I cleared my throat, then shook my head again.

He leaned forward, propping his chin on his slender fingers. Coy smirk playing about his lips. “You would remain completely faithful to me?” He purred, looking at me through his pale lashes. “I have no qualms allowing you to take lovers if it would make you more comfortable.”

I snorted faintly, burying it in my glass as I took another sip. As if anything about this conversation was likely to end with me being comfortable. The drink was already almost gone, and I could feel its effects curling tenderly about my insides. Warming my stomach, tickling the edges of my mind. I pretended it was the brandy making my cheekbones and neck flush, rather than the conversation. It was hard to separate the contract from myself when the bastard kept asking such personal questions.

“Monogamous.” I muttered finally, keeping my gaze fixed on my lap, even though it made no sense. My point was clear. After all, if I was going to do this marriage thing, I was going to do it right. Consign myself to my misery. And certainly not give this man any further ammunition against me in the future. Better to go it alone, as I always had.

His faint chuckle had me stiffening, but I pushed aside my discomfort. Reminding myself what this was all for. His quill scratched audibly across the page.

“Alright then, living quarters. Combined or separate?”

I nearly groaned. Another personal question? I ran my thumb over the lip of my glass. “Why is it necessary for that to be in the contract?” I grumbled, barely managing to conceal my irritation with his prying.

He tsked me, taking a deep sip of his own drink before flicking the feather of the quill at me pointedly. “We are embarking on a cross-cultural experiment, my young Prince. It is important all things be discussed. To avoid undue arguments and discontent down the line. No matter how trivial it may seem now.”

I almost snorted again but shook my head instead. “Kings and Queens traditionally have separate quarters.” I mumbled distantly. Would that notion matter in this instance?

“Really?” Breathed Grier, returning the quill to the inkwell and picking up his glass again. “I had heard such, but believed it more a formality than a common practice. How are conjugal visits managed?”

I glanced up at him, trying to discern if he was prying again. Trying to raise my ire. But he seemed genuinely curious, his red eyes sparkling in the firelight. I sighed deeply, raising one hand and rubbing at my brow.

“The Queen usually visits the King’s chambers regularly, until she becomes pregnant.”

“And after?”

I shrugged, raking my brain to remember how it had been between my own parents. “... Once an heir is produced, the visits are… less regular…” Likely because they were merely duty and obligation before. And once the coupling had produced a child? The King could return to his whores and the Queen to whatever her fancies.

He ran his finger over his lip, leaning back in his chair. “How absolutely odd. No wonder your people are so sexually repressed. You never see one another.”

Perhaps it was the now empty glass in my hand. Perhaps it was the fatigue from the long journey, or the emotional stress from the last few hours. But his words made me snort loudly, my facade of stoic calm dropping long enough to let a few short, soft laughs peter from my mouth.

When I looked over at him, he looked surprised. His eyes were wide, his slender brows high. My laughter faded, and I cleared my throat quickly, straightening.

“My apologies, Your Majesty, that was-”

“Please,” He stopped me again, reaching out one hand, “Just Grier. No ’Your Majesty’. And do not apologize.” He grinned, and for the first time, it seemed actually genuine rather than teasing or coy. “I am glad to see you are at least capable of laughter… Though I have yet to see you smile.” His smirk returned, and his eyes became playful. “I am not certain you know how.”

I rolled my eyes slightly, and a small scowl came over my lips. But I found myself not as annoyed as I had been at his teasing. I heard him stand, and his hand gently reached out and took my glass. I felt my heart skip a beat, though I berated myself for the foolishness as he returned to the cart with both.

He held my gaze for a moment too long as he passed me back my refilled glass, and I felt heat creeping up my neck. But I was careful to keep my face a careful mask of stoic indifference. It had been foolish of me to allow him to gain the upper hand thus far in negotiations. To let him put me constantly on edge with trivial questions that had nothing to do with the long term prosperity for my people. I was determined not to allow it to happen again.

Grier took his seat once more, swirling the brandy in his glass and taking a slow sip. Still, he watched me with those startling scarlet eyes. I felt my lips curving into a slight frown, but waited. As King, he should always be the one to speak first. It was not my place to address him unless I was first addressed. Perhaps he knew this, which is why he declined to speak. Instead fixing me with his unnerving gaze. Or, another part of me reasoned, perhaps he did not. Perhaps goblins did not have this custom, and he was waiting for me to speak first. As the guest. In which case, it was disrespectful for me not to speak.

I was still torn, debating which line of etiquette we were following, when he leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. My eyes flicked back to him at the movement, the only hint to my surprise.

“I find I am curious about you, Prince Nikostratus,” He said, sly smirk still dancing about his lips, “In truth, I did not expect you to agree to such an arrangement as this. And when you did, I was certain I would be able to call your bluff quickly.” My grip on my glass tightened, but I remained otherwise unmoved outwardly. “And if we are being completely honest, which I believe we should be, I originally proposed it to force you to trade your little sister for the sake of your own comfort and pride.”

I felt a chill run down my spine at his words, and my eyes narrowed sharply. “My sister?”

His expression faltered at the iciness of my tone, and even his smile shrank a few inches. The goblin quickly raised one hand. “Not for any untoward reason, I can assure you. More to gauge who you are as a person.”

I considered him, my gaze still chilled. A sinking feeling had grabbed hold of my nerves and dragged down the sensation from my fingertips with it. Leaving a tingling numbness slowly spreading through my body.

“Then you do not intend to keep this contract, Your Majesty?”

He chuckled nervously, finally dropping those scarlet eyes in the face of my cold, growing rage. “I feel we have regressed-”

“On the contrary,” I interrupted, eager to exploit his sudden off balanceness as he had so readily exploited mine, “I feel we have finally come to the end.” I started to stand, reaching out to place my glass on the table. “If you are quite done wasting my time, Your Majesty, I will return when you are ready to discuss a real contract for peace, rather than whatever sham you have attempted to ply onto me thus far.”

“This was not any kind of deception-” He jumped to his feet as I stood, quickly skirting over as if to block my path. “Your Highness, please-” I moved to step around him “-Prince Nikostratus!”

I froze, then looked down at him, his hand firmly clamped on my arm. His pronounced brow was knotted, his scarlet eyes narrowed. I found his grip surprisingly strong, despite his diminutive stature. The goblin was about a foot shorter than me, but it was a fact easily forgettable considering the square of his shoulders and the determined way he set his angular jaw.

We stayed like that for a breath, staring at each other. I fixed the King with as cold a glare as I could manage, and I saw him searching my face for a long, quiet moment. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but I was careful to keep up my stoney visage to be sure he would never find it.

“I have spoken too brashly,” He interjected finally, his voice soft, “And have thus insulted you… Which was far from my intent.” He gestured with his other hand, back to the arm chairs. “Please, Your Highness, allow me a moment to explain myself.”

I glanced back over my shoulder at the chairs, and my lips pinched tighter together in displeasure at the idea of returning. Disgust rolled in my gut, and I felt bile rising in my throat. But I worked hard to cool my anger. Reminding myself that whatever monster I was dealing with, I had to best him at his game. For everything I had left behind, and for everything that may yet lay before me. And perhaps, for the first time since we had met, I had him on the defense. It might be best to keep him there.

So I gave him a curt nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” I agreed stiffly.

He dropped his hand, relief flooding his features. I considered that for a moment as he magnanimously extended his arm. Leading the way back to the armchairs. I stood before mine, but did not sit, instead choosing to cross my arms over my chest. I had been told, due to the athletic tone of my body, that this was a rather imposing gesture on my part. Morgana had once told me it made my arms, chest, and shoulders look twice as big. My advisors had dryly followed up by telling me to never do so, as it hardly left the impression of a stately Prince. More, they said, a warmongering savage. But at that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to make the goblin King feel small. I wanted him to be fearful and on edge.

I saw his eyes running me up and down, saw his narrow eyebrows twitch. He declined to sit as well, instead choosing to stand and face me with his three fingered hands lightly on his hips.

“When talk of peace between our two Kingdoms first arose,” he began, “I was the one who proposed a union through marriage. I had thought it a sign. My advisors have long been pressing the idea of my marriage, but I had always been hesitant. After all,” He smirked slightly here, “You only get married once.” He straightened, his smirk becoming a frown, “But I was told that your sister would be my prospective partner, as the King’s only daughter. The prospect of marrying a child, for any reason, left me ill at the thought.” He shifted, tucking his hands against the small of his back. “So when I learned of your lack of interest in the fairer sex,” He continued, and I stiffened slightly at the implications, “I was relieved. You are an adult, after all, only a few years my junior, able to consent to the marriage of your own free will. You would understand what the arrangement would entail, and my conscience would rest easy knowing it was a consensual contract.” The shadow of his smirk returned to the corners of his mouth. “Imagine my surprise when I learned that your people would take a direct proposal of this nature as an outright insult! That they would rather I marry a child than a Prince.”

“And yet, Your Majesty, you chose to lay the insult upon me nevertheless.” I mused, my voice still cold. My anger still pounding in my breast.

He raised his hands defensively. “I did not plan to pursue that course of action. Not until I learned it was you yourself who would be coming to the peace negotiations did I see the opportunity to even do so.” He considered me slyly. “I had heard tales of your family, of your pride and snobbery,” He raised his hands again as my eyes flashed, but his voice remained light and teasing, “Though I much preferred an arranged marriage with you, I had assumed I would not find you an appealing match in the least.”

“Your Majesty, if you intend to continue this line of-”

“I put you to a test,” He interrupted, returning his hands to the small of his back, eyes dancing, “It was childish, perhaps, and I will honestly say, I did fully expect you to fail. I proposed the marriage to your sister, to see if you would agree to such an outrageous pairing. Then I offered you an alternative.”

I considered him quietly, mulling over his words. I thought about speaking then, in the silence he let settle about us. But I decided to wait to see if he had more to say. Though it seemed less a defense of his behavior thus far and more of a confession. So I waited, eyes slightly narrowed, arms still crossed over my chest.

“... So you see, I expected you to offer your sister to me, rather than risk your own image and honor. As I said before.” He paused briefly, and his head cocked ever so slightly to the side. “... But you surprised me.”

I gritted my teeth, scowling at him. “I am afraid, Your Majesty, that your so-called honesty has only confirmed my understanding that you were simply stringing me along. Intending to dishonor and embarrass me without any intent of-”

“I have every intent-” He interrupted me again “-Of marrying you. I always have.”

That made my breath catch in my throat, and my composure slipped ever so slightly around my eyes as they widened. I quickly reset my features, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.

He watched quietly, then gestured again to the chair. “Please, let us return to our negotiations. If we can move past this strife… For the good of our people, if nothing else.”

I hesitated, watching him sit as if the matter had been settled. There was still a question burning on my lips, but I was not certain I could continue on with any semblance of a level head if I knew the answer. For that reason, I chose not to ask it; not yet at least. I gritted my teeth again, studying him as he waited patiently, gazing up at me with those scarlet eyes.

“Your Majesty, If I find this is some long winded prank-”

“It is not.” He promised, then smiled his coy, teasing smile. “And please call me Grier, I beg of you. I cannot suffer the titles and formalities much longer than I absolutely must.”

I glanced back at the waiting armchair, at the abandoned glass of brandy. “What assurance do I have that it is not?”

Grier lifted one long, slender finger, tapping his lips thoughtfully. “We shall put it in the document, if it would set your mind at ease.” He declared, reaching out and picking up the quill once more. “Should it be discovered that either party entered this marriage contract under false pretenses, it shall immediately become null and void, and the offending party shall secede to the ruling authority of the other.” He ended the sentence on the page with a fancy flourish of the quill tip, and raised one brow at me. “Is that satisfactory?”

I resisted the urge to give him an un-princely grumble, and settled for a scowl instead. But I did return to my seat, slowly, stiffly, and after a moment reached for my glass.

“I believe we should discuss the ceremony itself.” He proposed tentatively, watching me through his pale lashes as he took another sip of his own brandy. “To be certain it is official and legally binding for both species.”

I swallowed my sigh, and gave a small nod. “As you wish.”

The goblin did not continue right away, cocking his head to the side again and studying me as he took a deep, slow sip of his drink. I waited, rolling my own glass distractedly against my palms. It was smooth, and cool to the touch. Almost as soothing as the liquid it held.

“But perhaps we can leave that for a later date.” I glanced over at him, and he flashed me a charming smile of pointed teeth. “I would like to hear what additions to the contract you would like to discuss first.”

I took a sip of the brandy, nodding much more resolutely. “Very well. The taxes levied on the people-”

He waved his hand, cutting me off. “No, no.” He sat forward in his chair. “Let the understudies and scribes deal with such tedious ticks. We will review them before the formal signing, but need not discuss the specifics ourselves.”

I frowned. “I beg your pardon, I thought you wished to discuss my additions…. What other addendum would you mean to discuss?”

Grier sighed deeply, and his lips twitched with amusement. “Those of a more personal nature, of course.” He swirled his brandy with a deft wrist. “We discussed those issues I felt might arise through the course of our marriage; children, lovers, living arrangements. You must have your own expectations for this union as well. Something to put in ink.”

I stiffened, and my gaze snapped down to the drink in my hands. “... I do not.”

He scoffed, waving his hand again. “Come now, there must be something. Summer castles, hunting trips, gifts, anniversaries, retirement plans. Perhaps religious beliefs? Dietary requirements?” I shook my head, and he rolled his eyes teasingly. “You must have some thoughts or plans for the remainder of your life.”

I took another sip of the brandy, letting it sit in my mouth for a moment before slowly swallowing it. “... I have no expectations.”

That set a deafening silence upon the cluttered room, and we sat in it for an extended period. Grier watched me, and I watched the flames flickering in the fireplace. Keeping my stoney expression flat and void. I forced all other thoughts from my mind to keep them from my face. As I had been taught and perfected through a lifetime of necessity.

“... It is late.” The goblin replied finally, clearing his throat and shuffling the parchment on his lap. “Undoubtedly it has been a long day. If you are agreeable, I will take you to our guest quarters for the evening so you may rest.”

I looked at the papers he placed upon the marble table. “The contract-”

“Will be there in the morning, when we are both more rested and fresh.” He finished, tossing his head back to drain the last of his glass and standing.

I followed suit, brushing my hands down my abdomen to smooth the starchy fabric there. He gestured to me as he moved towards the door, and the weariness of the day dragged at my shoulders. I found I had not the strength to argue further, and simply fell in step behind him as he pulled open the grand door and stepped back out into the hall.

I had never had a head for floorplans or layouts, and the twists and turns he led me down quickly became jumbled in my tired mind. Give me a war field with troops and battalions and I could coordinate and execute the most stunning and creative of maneuvers. Place me in a castle hall and give me directions to the kitchen and I would get lost. So I stayed at his mercy, allowing him to lead me deeper into his underground castle until we came before a set of old wooden doors.

“Here we are.” He exclaimed, halting and turning to face me. I stopped short to avoid running into his smaller frame. Sharp teeth grinned up at me. “You should find everything you need here. And I shall have an attendant at the door, should you find you require anything additional.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty-” I noticed his brow twitch slightly at the title, and I quickly clamped my mouth shut over the last syllable.

I saw him hesitate, glancing at the door, then back to me. I sensed there was more, and waited patiently. Even though my palms itched to open the door and have the peace of my own company. Even though my spine ached from holding so straight and perfect for so many long hours. I was well versed in patience; in serving the will of another at the expense of my own. So I waited.

“I would request your presence for breakfast.” He said, cupping his hands behind his back. “... Socially. For the pleasure of your company and to get to know you better, if you are willing.” Now it was my turn to hesitate, my breath catching in my throat. “You may decline, if you wish.” He added quickly. “I do not mind sending your meal to your rooms, then we may speak later to complete the final details of the marriage contract.”

My besotted mind could not quite fathom the full extent of the offer, and I belittled a sigh that managed to sneak out with a soft gust from my nose. My lips pursed, I nodded to the Goblin King, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle even as I did.

“Of course, Your-.... Ehm…” I cleared my throat, then looked down at the floor. “Of course… Grier.”

His name tasted strange on my tongue, and felt wrong to say. But the way he beamed up at me with delight made heat scratch at the edge of my collar. I shifted my weight slightly, glancing back at the stone floor.

“Excellent! I will see you in the morning then, Prince Nikostratus.”

...

UPDATE: Part two HERE

#mxm #oc #Royal Flush #monster x human #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster husband #slow burn #two kings #monster romance #terato #exophilia #goblin #goblin lover #goblin boyfriend #goblin husband #arranged marriage #monster royalty

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litheammunition · 3 years

Text

The worst fans in the world?

Welcome to England

The UK government is racist. Let’s not beat around the bush. Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister, is on record making racist jokes in the recent past. He and his cabinet, despite being almost all first or second generation immigrants, are pushing xenophobic, isolationist policies. They are doing their best to undermine everything that made this country worth being proud of. I have spoken against them at length on this blog.

But that doesn’t make the whole country racist. In fact, at least half of the country probably despise them. Even in their recent electoral success, they got fewer than 14 million votes, in a country with population of about 67 million. They only lead in age groups over 45, and trail in the young, working class, football-loving public. The whole election was portrayed as between two major parties, and the other one had been accused of anti-Semitism. Some voters actually went Tory in order to be anti-racist. It’s complicated.

Some fans of the England football team are racist. That’s disappointing, but no surprise. England, like all countries, has some racists living in it. The people who are racist tend to be nationalists, and tend to be fans of the national team. But there is nothing inherently racist about supporting England. There are tens of millions of non-racist England fans who are every bit as appalled by racism as anyone in the world. More, perhaps, because it’s closer to home.

England is a multicultural nation. In previous years, I was able to watch World Cup games in bars and enjoy the atmosphere of fans of the Netherlands or Colombia there passionately cheering their team on. Covid makes everything worse, but my Welsh and Italian neighbours were flying their colours and discussing their team’s chances with the English side by side. I watched the final with a French fan, who wanted revenge for Italy’s last tournament win: another penalty shoot-out after a one-all draw, helped by the sending off of star player Zidane. That incident was allegedly provoked by an Italian player calling his Algerian mother a terrorist, so there are still sore feelings there.

Meet the team

But the England team are about as far from racist as it is possible to be. In recent years, Raheem Sterling has taken it upon himself to be a vocal campaigner against racism in sport, and has been widely lauded for his work promoting racial equality. The England team have led the push for teams to take the knee in the Euros in protest against racism, despite heavy opposition from right-wing politicians who said they would boycott England games as a result.

If you hate the right-wing Tory government, you support this England team. Just today, Tyrone Mings has called out the Home Secretary, Priti Patel, for her previous comments. Marcus Rashford has led campaigns to combat austerity, gone toe-to-toe with the Prime Minister on multiple occasions, and won. He had ensured that thousands of children in poverty are fed, whether by donating from his own pocket, working to coordinate local businesses and food banks, or pressuring the government so hard they backed down.

For a progressive, anti-racist fan, this England team are incredibly easy to love. Even the manager, Gareth Southgate, promotes their campaigning for social justice. When the right-wingers complained about taking the knee and telling footballers to stay out of politics, putting political pressure on the team, he wrote an open letter to the nation defending them.

I know my voice carries weight, not because of who I am but because of the position that I hold. At home, I’m below the kids and the dogs in the pecking order but publicly I am the England men’s football team manager. I have a responsibility to the wider community to use my voice, and so do the players.

It’s their duty to continue to interact with the public on matters such as equality, inclusivity and racial injustice, while using the power of their voices to help put debates on the table, raise awareness and educate.

By contrast, the people who hate this England team the most are the racists, the Tories, the Brexiteers who don’t like these young, working class black lads talking back to them. They write biased headlines and try to organise a boycott of the games, predicting England will go out early because of their anti-racism posturing. The rest of us stand with players and love them all the more for it.

Never stopped me dreaming

They are a likeable group, one of the youngest in the tournament, and talented too. There’s no denying that, when seven members of the squad started the Champions League final the month before. Another four English players started for Manchester United in the Europa League final, with two England squad members on the bench. It was easy to get emotionally invested, and start to hope that at last we had a team that could do us proud after so many years of hurt and disappointment.

But when England fans started getting enthusiastic and looking forward to the tournament, other fans began the negativity. A section of the fans of the Ireland national team, which failed to qualify for Euro 2020, joined those of Scotland and Wales in mobbing all social media posts about England with insults and attempts to bring that excitement down.

Every take was accused of ‘typical English arrogance’. Articles about the draw, including who England might play if they made it out of the group? That was paraded around as a prime example of arrogance, even if every other country was doing the same, because the draw was all we had to speculate about at that stage.

Articles worried that England would go out in the first knockout round, unable to beat better sides like France and Portugal, and would be better off coming second in the group to avoid them? That was called even more arrogant. That’s right - if you’re English, even being afraid of teams you respect as better than you is apparently arrogant. I wonder what they think the opposite of arrogance would look like.

Other teams were more bullish. I saw plenty of France fans saying they were going to follow the 2018 World Cup with another victory, and most English punters were happy to agree, bowing before their obvious superiority. I saw a lot of Scotland fans, drawn in the same group of England, saying they would thrash their southern neighbours. Many Welsh fans were still going on about their semi-final run five years ago, saying they would go further than England again, to which English fans (including myself) looked at the draw and gloomily agreed.

I, together with many England fans, fully expected to go out in the Round of 16. A few suggested the quarter finals, or tentatively proposed that England were arguably in the top four sides in the tournament, so might make the semis. I don’t remember any serious expectation of making the final, let alone winning it. We’ve been burnt far too many times before for that. All those years of hurt have bred a nation of pessimists, most of whom can’t ever remember seeing their side make a final. There was no ‘entitlement’ from a fanbase like that. They could dream, but they had no reason to expect.

Still, the fanbase were attacked as arrogant and obnoxious on all of these posts, told that they were entitled if they hoped for a quarter final, told this was typical English egotism, as if every other decent footballing nation wasn’t hoping for the same. Perhaps the abusive Scottish or Irish fans had no visibility of those other nations and their fans, and little experience of major tournaments or hope for themselves, so they made an honest misunderstanding. Or perhaps they just wanted to get some jabs in.

Want some proof? When BBC pundits were asked to predict a winner, twelve said France, two Belgium, one Italy. Germany, Portugal, even Turkey were mentioned, but none of them thought England. The same happened with other journalists: FourFourTwo’s writers settled on France (5), Belgium (2) and Portugal (1). The Athletic were the same. Nobody actually thought England would win it, but the funny thing is that, if they had, they would have been one of the closest.

Imagine that. If, before the tournament, a pundit had unironically suggested England would reach the final, play 120 minutes and lose by one penalty, having been leading for most of the game (and going 2-1 up in the shootout), they would have been laughed at as wildly optimistic. But even that wouldn’t have been ‘arrogant’ or ‘entitled’... because they would have been right.

The hype inevitably ramped up as the tournament approached, but then quickly fizzled out when the names on the team sheet were replaced by actually watching England play. Just like the nation, the team were set up with a pessimist’s strategy, a defensive line-up to ward against other teams rather than going gung-ho and thinking we could smash them.

There is a sense that the stars aligned for England this time. They didn’t. Stars Rashford and Sterling were badly out of form, and unable to even warm up with the team before the tournament, as all of those European finalists were too late to arrive for the warm-up games. Those matches were uncomfortably tight, missing the core of the team, seeing pundit’s favourite Trent Alexander-Arnold injured and withdrawn from the squad, and with key players Jordan Henderson, Harry Maguire and Jack Grealish already ruled out of starting the opening games through injury. By the time the opening ceremony came around, nobody was in any position to feel confident.

Bad behaviour

England made it out of the group with quiet dignity, playing cautious football against opponents offered a lot of respect. In fact, when Scotland game to London to play their game, the headlines were all about the Scottish fans, as 20,000 travelled to London despite only being allowed 2,600 seats, and one man wearing nothing but a kilt inadvertently flashing commuters on the Tube.

The contentious point at this stage was still taking the knee. The England team were booed for doing so, by their own right-wing fans as well as their cousins across Europe. In their previous game, against Poland, Twitter was full of Polish fans mocking the English players for kneeling and being so weak as to be so sensitive about racism. England kneeled anyway, and beat them. They didn’t seem like the bad guys of Europe then.

Scotland were originally going to kneel, then decided not to when it became politically controversial, switching to standing against racism instead, then did another U-turn under public outrage to compromise and kneel in solidarity for the England game. That was a nice touch, but the England players holding firm to their convictions was nicer.

It’s worth pointing out at this stage that the booers were a minority. In fact, a YouGov poll on 10 June found that 54% of English fans supported taking the knee, compared to 39% opposed. The relevant numbers for Scotland were 49% and 42%. Of the nine nations surveyed, they were one of only two where the anti-racism gesture didn’t have a majority of support.

The other racism narrative in the group concerned the Czech Republic. Scottish club Rangers had recently played Slavia Prague, and Rangers midfielder Glen Kamara was allegedly racially abused by one of the Czech players. He apparently called him ‘a fucking monkey’. With Scotland playing the Czechs in their first game, that was obviously the story in the build up.

It wasn’t helped by fellow Czech player Tomas Soucek, who gave an interview ahead of the tournament defending his teammate banned for that abuse, and complaining that the UK is too sensitive to racism.

I fought for Ondrej all the time. I believe that he did not tell him anything racist, no one proved anything about him.

“Yet a lot of people in the UK condemned him and he received a heavy sentence of ten matches from UEFA. I found it absurd. I know him so well that I can’t imagine him saying anything racist.

“I see how sensitive the British are to racism every day. Two cultures collide because we think a little differently than they do.

“Of course, it’s right they want to fight racism, but sometimes they go to such extremes that, in my opinion, it’s counterproductive.”

Again, the English didn’t seem like the racist villains of Europe then. Quite the opposite. Heck, even before that game, Marko Arnautovic scored for Austria in their opening match and celebrated by using racial slurs against two North Macedonian players, resulting in a one game ban for racism. Compared to all of that, England’s diverse, young, progressive team of explicit anti-racism activists seemed pretty admirable.

Knock-out blows

Then things worsened. England drew Germany in the first knockout round, and a wave of jingoism was dredged up from the depths of World War II. Songs were sung about the war, nationalistic nostalgia for old battles, when the opposition tried to invade and they were sent soundly packing by our plucky troops. It was insensitive and stupid, but the same description applies equally to the Scottish national anthem sung with gusto before the England game, or literally any of the build up from the Scottish side.

Anthems were the problem. A minority of stupid England fans started taking the atmosphere too far, booing during the German national anthem before the game began. It was embarrassing and disrespectful. Of course, they aren’t the first to do it. In the 2011 Nations Cup, one of the most recent tournaments Scotland and Ireland have played in, the fans of both teams booed throughout God Save the Queen. The Scottish fans were previously condemned by the Irish FA for doing the same thing in 2008.

But the knockout stages were also where another form of abuse really took hold. Even the England fans who booed the anthems let the game go once it was done. They didn’t spend the next few days searching for Germany or Ukraine or Denmark fans to mock and tear away any positive sentiment. But that’s exactly what Scottish and Irish fans did to England fans, to the extent that it was impossible to enjoy a positive post about England without it being drowned in negativity and insults.

Rivalry is one thing. England have a rivalry with Germany, even though of course Germany don’t see England as their real rivals, in a similar way to England’s relationship with the other Home Nations. But England fans weren’t spending most of their energy pleading for Germany to fail, didn’t loudly support France against Germany, change their social media names to the French flag, searching through German tags to jeer that they were going to get thrashed, and rush to rub it in when they lost. They didn’t do that to Wales when they played Denmark, and didn’t do it to anyone.

Instead, they let them have nice things, and focused on the positive support of their own team, even if some idiots took things too far on the actual matchday. These keyboard warriors from Ireland and Scotland, on the other hand, were purely negative throughout, or at least from the moment of Scotland’s exit. They were hear to boo not only the English anthem, but every single England press briefing, training session, team photo... English support pages couldn't post anything without abuse from trolls. A couple of anthems is nothing to that all-consuming bitterness.

On the next Tuesday, with the tournament finished and done, it was an unrelated post by the England women's team building up excitement for their upcoming pictures, attracting a gang of people with Italian flags in their names to mock them for their male counterparts’ defeat. Why seek it out? Would England fans do that if their team had won the final, or would they just be ecstatic celebrating amongst themselves? Isn't that enough, without having to kick others whilst they're down?

On the Wednesday, they had been poring over footage of the England team collecting their silver medals, and I was greeted that morning with a Twitter filled with complaints that they had taken them off afterwards: England were held up for criticism of their childish behaviour, proving they didn’t care about fair play and sportsmanship. But that’s traditional for finalists to do, both in England and Italy. Anyone who actually watches football, other than just watching the England games to criticism them, would known that.

In fact, anyone with empathy would understand it. After running themselves into the ground for over two hours and losing with the heartbreaking last penalty, the players were willing to queue with grace and collect their medal out of respect, but they don’t exactly then want to walk around with the ‘we lost’ around their necks when they were on the verge of tears. There will be time to look back and treasure it later, when it doesn’t hurt quite so much. They have the right to grieve and process it in their own time. Someone seeing them as young human beings, rather than national caricatures, might understand that.

But I don’t blame the Italians for these comments. Despite the flags in their profiles, I doubt those people were actually Italian, because many Irish, Scottish and Welsh fans were all dressing up in green white and red by this stage, just as they had worn a Denmark flag, and a Ukraine flag, and a German flag before that. James McClean, an Irish player whose team weren’t good enough to make the tournament, even bought a Germany shirt to wear and posted a picture stating his wish for England to fail.

Before each game, Twitter was filled with people telling me England were about to get thrashed by [opposition of the day], and that the world would laugh at us when we were. It wasn’t a happy environment. I might suggest that the most toxic fanbase in Europe isn't one who boos opposition for a game then forgets about them, but one who then stalks them throughout the tournament, desperately hoping for them to fail, fingers trembling to launch the abuse and rub salt into their wounds in the moment it hurt the most.

I get picking another team to support. Irish fans not having a horse in the race takes some of the interest out of the tournament, so it makes sense to have a bit of fun by adopting another team to support. The last time England failed to qualify, in Euro 2008, I adopted Romania as underdogs. But this isn’t that. This is the opposite: not choosing another horse to cheer on, but choosing the fences, hoping that one specific horse falls and breaks its leg so you can laugh at it. Anti-supporting. Pure negativity. This isn’t ‘a bit of fun’, it’s straight-up toxic.

Taking a dive

Things grew even worse after the Denmark game. Let’s be clear: England dominated the match. Possession was 60:40. They had 20 shots, 10 on target, compared to Denmark’s 6 and 3 on target. They could have had more, but they massively eased off after scoring the winning goal. They also had the moral high ground, given that Denmark committed more than twice the number of fouls (21 to 10. On both counts, they probably deserved to win.

But the match was ultimately won due to a rebound from an England penalty, awarded due to what was perceived as a soft foul on Sterling. From there, the discourse ramped up another notch. England were now branded as cheats. The anti-Sterling hate campaign started, every England post filled with newly-Italian, previously-Denmark fans saying he and Kane were talentless divers who could only win by cheating. The anti-fans had been struggling to find a justification for their vendetta, especially as that pre-tournament English ‘arrogance’ had been borne out by a run to the final, but now they found one.

Dirty, cheating England. Of course, the opposite is true. They were literally criticised in previous tournaments for being too nice, too polite, not street-wise enough, whilst other teams had the edge it takes to win. Their position in the Fair Play table at previous European Championships was as follows:

Euro 2000: 1st Euro 2004: 2nd Euro 2008: DNQ Euro 2012: 3rd Euro 2016: 2nd

Now they have wised up, and they are criticised for doing the same things that other teams do. In the same match, Denmark’s only goal came from a free-kick from an equally soft foul (Norgaard going to ground under no provocation), and Denmark players broke the laws of the game when the free-kick was taken in disrupting the England wall. But of course the anti-fans only see one thing.

It was even funnier that they used these tirades about cheating, diving England as their justification to support Italy to thrash them in the final, when literally the previous game had seen Italian striker Ciro Immobile blatantly dive and lie down in the penalty box until miraculously recovering when a goal went in. Italy vice captain Leonardo Bonucci even had the gall to come out and justify it, claiming that the happiness of the goal had the power to make the pain go away.

But again, the anti-fans betray that they only watch the England games to find things to abuse them for, rather than just enjoying the tournament or checking out the teams they now decide to support. One even commented on the Sterling penalty to say ‘if an Italian player did this, the English pundits would be calling for their head’... when an Italian player had literally just done it, and the reaction in England had been mostly amusement.

Of the four BBC pundits shown the clip, only Alan Shearer was not amused. Even then, he was teased by the other three, who claimed he would have done the same. So much for the implication that England pundits don’t English players dive - in fact, these anti-fans are betraying the exact opposite bias. This is also an interestingly novel use of a hypothetical, to describe a situation which literally just happened and went the other way. The anti-fans are now imagining their own separate realities to get angry about.

Together with the claim that England were the cheats of the tournament, the penalty let to claims that the whole thing was rigged for England to win, that they were the team benefitting from referee bias. Again, that claim is laughable given that England actually had a stronger penalty claim denied in the same game, and didn’t get anything when Sterling was taken down on runs into the box in the Germany game either.

England’s history in major tournaments since 1966 has involved major refereeing decisions going against them in half of the games where they were knocked out. Goals were contentiously disallowed in 1998, 2004 and 2010, Maradona’s famous handball was allowed, and England also had players sent off in 1998 and 2006. The idea that they benefit from a refereeing conspiracy is ludicrous.

The only really crime was committed by one England fan, who it emerged had shone a laser pen at the Danish goalkeeper in an attempt to put him off for the penalty. Of course, he saved the penalty, so it didn’t work and the idea England only won through cheating again falls flat. But still the abuse came raining in, using that as the latest excuse to call the England squad talentless cheats.

When that didn’t quite do it, the anti-fans pulled out the big guns, and said they had to will England to fail because of the country’s racism and colonial past. I mean, it’s the Euros. All of the big sides were European colonial nations. In fact, most of England’s knockout opponents - Germany, Denmark, Italy - had more a history of invading England than the other way around, which makes that moral basis a bit questionable.

The racism claim is similarly weak as an excuse for choosing Italy over England, when Italian football has long been notorious for its racism issue. AC Milan players Tiemoue Bakayoko and Franck Kessie were racially abused in April 2019, the same month as Juventus player Moise Kean. In September 2019, Romelu Lukaku was the victim. In November 2019, Mario Balotelli suffered the same. The offending clubs were not punished by the league or Italian FA. In fact, the problem seems to go all the way to the top.

“I remember that when we were young, we also booed players with normal, white skin,” the Lazio president said in response. “Booing doesn’t always have a discriminatory connotation.”

“It is wrong if someone boos black footballers, but it is even more wrong when someone who earns €3 million drops into the area and is also happy to gain a penalty,” said the head of the Italian Olympic committee.

In response to the Balotelli incident, where he reacted to racial abuse by throwing the ball into the crowd, the manager of Lecce said that “racism must not be exploited”, claiming that racial discrimination is linked to the players’ behaviour on the field and justified in the event that the behaviour is negative.

In response to the Kean incident, where the player celebrated a goal in front of the fans with his arms outstretched and was racially abused, Juventus and Italy player Bonucci came out to say something similar. “The blame is 50-50,″ he said. “He could have done it differently.” England player and anti-racism campaigner Raheem Sterling called him out for that, having recently been racially abused when playing for England against Montenegro and stood up for himself against the rival fans.

In response to the Lukaku incident, where he was subjected to monkey noises, a statement from the fan group of his own club Inter Milan said “We are sorry you thought what happened in Cagliari was racist. You have to understand that Italy is not like many other north European countries where racism is a real problem.” and argued the monkey chants should be taken as a form of respect.

The examples are everywhere: monkey chants, even bananas thrown in the pitch. A major Italian sports paper previewed a match between Roma and Inter with caricatures of two black players and the headline ‘Black Friday’. When Serie A was finally pressured into running an anti-racism campaign, they caused even more offence by using monkeys on the posters. A pundit on Italian TV said the only way to stop Lukaku was to give him ten bananas to eat.

When English fans have travelled to Italy in recent years, they have been stabbed by hardcore fans of the Italian teams. Rome is notorious for it. When Liverpool visited Naples for a Champions League game in September 2019, fans were attacked by a group of men wielding belts and one was hospitalised. Nothing had changed since the visit to the same city in 2010, when Naples fans went out hunting for Liverpool fans with knives.

Perhaps most famously, Liverpool fan Sean Cox was put into a coma after a visit to Rome, where a group of 50 or 60 Italian fans with balaclavas and belts roamed the city looking to do exactly that. Any basic search for Italian club ‘ultras’ reveals that they are far more extreme than any English hooliganism. The above are just the stories we hear about because English fans were the victims. Liverpool fans don’t get this sort of treatment when they go to Manchester for the biggest rivalry in English football. In fact, the closest in the British Isles is probably the Old Firm derby in Scotland, which are now usually played in the afternoon because evening games were marked by sectarian and tribal violence.

Even in the past year, following the Kamara incident above, Rangers players including him were filmed celebrating their trophy win by allegedly singing a version of Sweet Caroline with the lyrics ‘Fuck the Pope’. This would be a reference to the sectarian conflict between the traditionally Protestant Rangers and the traditionally Catholic Celtic, and led to a renewal of abuse of Kamara from Celtic fans on social media, with many retracting any sympathy they’d had and saying he deserved the racism.

Before this week, the worst harassment of an England player in recent memory was probably that of Declan Rice, who chose England over Ireland after being eligible for both and received death threats from Irish fans against him and his family. It’s convenient for these Scottish and Ireland fans to now act like only England’s fanbase has its hardcore idiots, and use that sense of superiority to get away from acknowledging their own problems.

But even if Scotland and Ireland were perfect, claiming that the world was supporting Italy against England due to racism and violence would look stupid in the context of the examples above. None of those things are routinely seen in English football, they are punished hard where they do happen, and the authorities certainly know better.

It’s therefore more than a little strange to see these anti-fans going on about how they are rooting for England - a diverse, anti-racist team - to fail because England is racist, when that means supporting Italy and wearing their colours instead. Sterling played for England against Bonucci for Italy. Who are the anti-racists cheering on? Again, it’s clear that these justifications are post-hoc and they just want an excuse to spew hate with a free pass.

The Final Insult

Unlike the Denmark game, England were outplayed against Italy. However, like the Denmark game, they maintained the moral upper hand, committing 13 fouls compared to 21 for a ‘dirty, cheating’ Italian side, five of whom received yellow cards for their aggressive and cynical fouling. There could have been reds, but again the refereeing decisions didn’t go England’s way. Watch the clip of Chiellini grabbing Bukayo Saka by the collar as he was through on goal, choking a 19 year old to cheat and stop him scoring. Or watch Jorginho stamp on Jack Grealish with his studs out.

Do the anti-fans anti-supporting England as the bad guys still believe that, if they ever did? There was no admission they were wrong. Having criticised England for playing ‘smart’ against Denmark and winning, did those people watch England play nobly against Italy and lose and commend them for at least being the good guys, and sympathise with them? No, they jumped on the first chance to mock them as pathetic losers.

It became clear, if it wasn’t already, that their only agenda was hatred and bitterness. The various reasons given were just a way to dress it up to be socially acceptable. It wasn’t anti-racism, if they targeted Sterling after the Denmark game and cheered on Bonucci as he scored both the equalising goal and the equalising penalty for Italy, then jeered the three young black men who missed for England and mocked them alongside the racists.

It was the worst possible way England could have gone out, Rashford missing the decisive penalty, giving new life to his knee-boycotting right-wing opponents who had been humbled into silence by the England team’s success without their support, followed by two other black players. My heart sank, and not just from the defeat: I knew it would embolden the disgusting racists to come crawling back out of the woodwork, having been kept quiet by the brilliance of this loveable, diverse team, and of Sterling in particular.

England were uniting the country against the racist right, but going out this way gave them everything they needed to sow division again. That’s what I’d been trying to tell the anti-fans, who were rooting for these same players to fail, whilst claiming anti-racism as the reason. They didn’t care. They just wanted an excuse for their obsessive, aggressive nationalist crusade, and were dressing it up in sheep’s clothing in any way they could.

As with the abuse of Sterling and anti-support of the England team, their nationalism ultimately found itself aligned with racists in England and abroad, whilst the rest of us - the team and the moderate, supportive public - were assailed from both sides. We and the team hate English racists more than anyone, because we have to live with them. If anyone actually cared about opposing them, they would champion and support the team standing against them, and wish Rashford score the winning penalty to shut them up.

Nothing would have done more to hurt England racism than that. Rashford would have cemented his national treasure status, and been able to do even more good. No politician would dare argue with the country’s hero. Those who had campaigned against him and wanted to boycott England for taking the knee would have been disgraced and humbled.

There is a story told of France’s World Cup win in 1998, when a diverse team united the country in their victory, striking a blow against racism and humiliating the far-right politicians who had criticised the squad (just as those in England did this year).

The World Cup was a particular embarrassment for Le Pen, who had called the French side "unworthy" representatives who did not even know the words of "La Marseillaise".

France's World Cup hero Zinedine Zidane was a member of the marginalised group targeted by Le Pen in the south of France. The son of Algerian immigrants, Zidane had grown up on the tough housing estates of Marseilles, where the National Front enjoyed significant political support.

Yet after his two goals in the final more than a million people gathered on Paris's Champs-Elysées to chant Zidane's name.

In defeat, the opposite is true. If nothing would hurt English racism more than Rashford scoring the winning penalty, nothing would inflame it more than him missing, which is what happened. Worse, he was followed by two other black players who had their penalties saved, confirming England’s defeat. All of the racists, the right-wingers who had been furiously silenced by the success of this multi-cultural, kneeling, outspoken team, came for their heads.

It was disgusting to see. The sheer volume of racially-charged abuse directed towards these players, even if they hadn’t been young, even if they hadn’t been good, loveable guys, was more upsetting than the defeat itself had been. At least the players losing with dignity, comforting each other, had left me with some pride in the national team. The aftermath wiped that national pride away.

I was sickened, I was depressed, but one emotion I didn’t feel was surprise. From the moment Rashford missed, there was a certain sick inevitability about the backlash I knew he would receive. When Saka and Sancho followed, and England’s defeat was confirmed, my first words were that this was the worst possible way it could have happened. I was heartbroken for them, knowing that the blame would weigh on them for years. and knowing that the racists would have a field day.

It wasn’t hard to predict. When France were knocked out by Switzerland the week before, with Kylian Mbappé failing to convert the decisive penalty, he was showered in racist abuse. One week later, Rashford, Sancho and Saka suffered the same fate. That was one reason why I couldn’t understand people rooting for them to miss, unless you were Italian. Why would you wish that fate on anyone, let alone these likeable young guys trying to do some good in the world?

But the anti-fans did just that, jeering Rashford and laughing at his miss, not because of who he was or anything he’d done, but because of nationalism. Pure hatred of an admirable young black man based on his nationality. They cheered the miss, just as they’d cheered Bonucci’s goal. They cheered for the anti-racists to lose, and so the racists won, and they celebrated and mocked the anti-racists side by side. Four days later, England posts are still met with taunts for missing the penalties from these anti-fans, who have nothing better to do but lash out at teams that went further than theirs.

All of that might not be so deplorable, if these people weren’t using anti-racism as their justification, saying they wanted England to fail because England = racist. Well, the reaction to the final proved that England has racists, as I said at the start. But it also proved that wanting the England national team to fail is the opposite way to go about that. It didn’t defeat racism, it emboldened it, and rather than offer support to the victims the anti-fans joined in with their own anti-England taunts to make their misery even worse.

They might have deluded themselves that it’s punching up, but it’s punching down. Punishing the victims of racism for the racism of their neighbours, when they are the ones who have to deal with it. Judging us all the same in their hatred for our nationality, with no empathy for the anti-racists in England, no realisation we have more in common than we do to racists anywhere, because bolstering their sense of national superiority is more important.

I’ve seen similar pleas from the United States. The northern states mock the south as a racist, right-wing backwater. But good people live in the south. Even if the stereotype is true, it follows that there are victims of racism living in the south. How are they helped by calling their home a backwater? If it is racist, they look north for support, only to see people mocking the other side of their identity, the cultures and communities they love. National hate doesn’t counter racist hate, it supplements it.

People in DC sneering at Virginia doesn’t help, it just further entrenches the racists there to combat that smug superiority with their own supremacist identity, and ensures the rest are attacked on both fronts, having to live with racists and having their own home mocked as racist by outsiders, and encourages the people in DC to overlook problems on their own doorstep. What helps is unity, support, working to fight these problems together, not a game of ‘we’re better than you’.

Seriously, whose first reaction to racism is to use it to score points, to prove their own superiority? Some have used it as an excuse to mock 'the English', others have used it as an excuse to put down 'football fans', painting them all with the same brush to confirm their own existing prejudices. One is nationalism, one is classism. Neither are anti-racism activism. It’s purely an exercise in ego, smugly announcing the superiority of your nationality or class. It doesn't help the victims, who belong to that same group you are belittling. Saka is not consoled by being told everyone hates the English. Sancho isn't comforted by being told football fans are animals. That's just insulting them for a second time.

Of course, the abuse wasn’t just from English fans. Plenty of Italians are their new supporters joined in calling the players useless monkeys, anti-English nationalism hitting those extremes just as English nationalism was. It turns out that the tribal jingoism of these campaigns are always dangerous fires to stoke. Research by anti-racism campaign Kick it Out found that 70% of racist abuse in English football is sent from overseas.

“These are not football fans,” he says. “They are people who have never been inside an English football ground.” In part that’s because – while our problem with racism is acute – we don’t have a monopoly on being morons. Italian and French football fans are as likely, if not more likely, to abuse black players with monkey emojis.

None of this is in any way to deny or dilute the sheer awfulness of the racism displayed by English fans. I condemn that in the strongest possible terms, and as a country we need to be better. It is simply to point out that those using this as an excuse to dunk on the English as a racist, hate-worthy nation are factually - as well as morally - wrong.

There is just this idea, particularly amongst Irish and Scottish fans who only look as far as England and are completely ignorant of what goes on in comparable countries, or people who tuned in for this tournament and are reacting to behaviours (such as the silver medals above) as if England invented them for the first time.

Yes, some England fans are racist towards players, and it’s awful. Yes, some England fans are hooligans, and it’s awful. But go back and read some of those examples from Italy above, and tell me if that’s a good reason to uniquely condemn England, or to support Italy against them. Did anybody outside Wembley get stabbed?

It’s also not even just Italy. By the same token, I don’t think racism or violence are an ‘Italian problem’, just as it’s wrong to see them as an English problem. In March 2019 a Manchester United fan was stabbed in Paris after a PSG game. The previous European Championships, held in France, saw England fans critically injured after assaults from Russia fans, followed by violence from Croatian and Turkish fans after their games against the Czech Republic and Spain.

In the 2018 World Cup, the Serbia and Switzerland teams were punished for nationalist gestures referencing the Serbia-Albania conflict. Mexican fans directed homophobic abuse towards Germany goalkeeper Manuel Neuer, who had spoken against homophobia. When France won the tournament, there was rioting back home and two people died. This year, the same happened in Italy. But people only see the crowds outside Wembley and shake their head at hooliganism as this uniquely English character flaw, without bothering to check the international news.

England fans are given this reputation, but they are by no means an outlier or exceptional in this. The anti-fan nationalists will conveniently forget incidents of fan aggression in their own countries, and either feign or display their ignorance of England’s opponents by backing them regardless of what their own fans and players are like, because their principles and judgement only apply when England is in the dock.

Look at the Polish and Czech and Austrian examples this year, even without the Serbia and Switzerland and France and Russia and Mexico and Turkey and Croatia examples from the last couple of tournaments. In many of those, England fans are sneered at by a lot of Europe not because they’re seen as racist, but because they’re seen as too sensitive to racism. When anti-fans say ‘everyone hates England’ and align themselves with that, they’re not aligning themselves against racism, just against England.

When supporting England’s opponents, nobody did the slightest research on Ukraine, who were issued a stadium ban by UEFA in response to racist abuse and the use of laser pointers in a Euro 2016 qualifying game. That came just two days after Ukrainian champions Dynamo Kiev were forced to play two European games without fans after racist abuse of Chelsea players. Nothing had improved by March 2019, when Chelsea again visited and player Callum Hudson-Odoi was racially abused.

In November 2019, a Brazilian player was subjected to monkey chants in a Ukrainian league game, and stuck his middle finger up to the racists in return. The response of the Ukrainian authorities was to ban him for the next game. But the anti-fans were happy to show how opposed they were to English racism by supporting Ukraine against them.

Even Germany have had a chequered recent past. Mesut Ozil, named the Germany player of the year in 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015, and 2016, quit the national team in 2018 over perceived racism in the German football association, having been scapegoated and received abuse and threats from German fans. "I am German when we win, but I am an immigrant when we lose," he said. The next year, German players Leroy Sane and Ilkay Gundogan were racially harassed whilst playing for the national team.

UEFA has its own issues. At a tournament during pride month, they have completely failed to stand up to the homophobia of certain host countries, even banning Germany from doing it by decorating their stadium in rainbow colours. When Neuer chose to wear a rainbow captain’s armband instead, they tried to ban that too, until U-turning under pressure. When Germany played England, Harry Kane wore a rainbow armband in solidarity.

But again, England are the villains of Europe, and we are on the moral high ground with everybody else against them. Never mind that Russia, Hungary, Turkey are all in this tournament. UEFA have again given hosting duties to Azerbaijan, as they did for the Europa League final in May 2019, leading to an Armenian Arsenal player not being able to attend or play. This time the authorities just confiscated a fan’s rainbow flags.

You have to put England fans booing anthems into context. The previous time they were charged for it was in a game against Bulgaria in 2019, when both teams were punished by UEFA. England were charged for booing the anthem. Bulgaria were charged for booing them anthem, throwing objects, making monkey noises towards Rashford, Mings and Sterling, and doing Nazi salutes. But the anti-fans would just see England’s booing and support Bulgaria against them.

If you want to pretend that your hatred of England is based on politics, and devote all of your campaigning to that hatred, and support these other countries against them, you betray your ignorance. The world is full of awfulness. If you think it’s an England thing, you haven’t been paying attention.

Excuses, excuses

So now we all hate England and want them to fail because England is a racist country. That clears that up. We were all hating England and wanting them to fail because they were arrogant and entitled, and then it was because they were disrespectful, and then it was because they were cheats, but now we’ve found a much stronger excuse for own own nationalism, for doing what we wanted to do anyway.

I know that this hatred isn’t about Sterling’s dive, or the booing of the German anthem, or any of that. I know because it started before a ball was kicked, and even before that ball was delivered by a remote control car. Fans of the Ireland national team, who lost to Slovakia in their first play-off game, were voicing their resentment way back when the squad was announced. Fans of the Scotland national team, who scraped through their own play-offs but then went out at the bottom of their group, joined them soon afterwards, donning Germany shirts before their own defeated players had even changed out of theirs.

That is not normal. A rivalry between Scotland and England in Group D was expected, sure. We saw something similar with England and Wales in Euro 2016, with a build up to their game. But there was no need for the Wales team to wildly celebrate England’s getting knocked out in the next round as if they’d just won the whole thing.

The English were largely happy to watch and cheer them on rather than ordering Belgium flags and doing all they could to ruin their fun. After all, a large proportion of the Wales squad hailed from England, which was another reason tribal nationalism was difficult to support. I wonder how Che Adams, Scotland’s best attacking threat, would feel to read all of these abusive comments about the country he was born in, grew up in, and has lived in all his life.

He was happy to identify as English right up to March 2021, when the Scottish FA offered him a chance to start in Euro 2020. He was eligible thanks to his maternal grandmother, but had opted to play for England in 2015 and actually turned down Scotland when they approached him in 2017. It seems that only qualifying for an international tournament has turned him Scottish.

It’s funny how fans are happy to hate and attack a whole nationality, but still cheer them on when they’re playing for them. There’s another parallel with the racists there: as Ozil said, he is German when they win, but an immigrant otherwise. England’s penalty takers learnt that this country’s racist underbelly are sadly no different, and they are only willing to respect diversity whilst it serves them.

Of course, England’s squad is one of the most diverse in the tournament, also filled with first, second, and third generation immigrants. Kane, Sterling, Saka, Rashford, Grealish, Sancho, Rice, Phillips, Walker, and Maguire all played a part in the semi or final, having been eligible to play for another team, and the vast majority of England fans have taken the whole squad into their hearts. Until the abuse of the penalty takers by a small minority, this diverse team were beloved across the nation.

Why wouldn’t they be? The players and manager have shown themselves to be decent, dignified, respectful people. I read Raheem Sterling’s story, and wonder how these anti-fans can want him to fail with such aggression. I look at Gareth Southgate’s journey, being scapegoated as the penalty failure in Euro 1996, and growing to become the eloquent, compassionate, humble leader he is today. The way he hugged a crying Saka, and came out in the press conference to take the bullet for his players, was incredibly emotional for anyone with empathy.

(Perhaps Southgate can be contrasted with the Wales manager Ryan Giggs, if you want to read up on the episode where he tore apart his family by cheating on his wife and trying to censor the press and sue Twitter to cover it up, or the one when he tore apart his other family by repeatedly sleeping with his brother’s wife, including getting her pregnant weeks before their wedding, and leaving his brother estranged from their mum because she chose Ryan and his millions over the victim of their feud, or the current news stories concerning his appearances in court on charges of domestic violence and abuse.)

But of course the anti-fans missed it. Whilst the rest of us were watching Kalvin Phillips, who had covered the most distance of any player in the tournament, make the effort after 120 minutes to run and console Saka, they were rushing to mock the 19 year old for his failure, and mock England for another heartbreak. He was still lost in the midst of the Italian celebrations whilst jubilant haters were rubbing it in, once again fighting side by side with the racists mocking him too.

High horses, white horses

Of course, it’s no surprise that England had loved this diverse team. They were representing a diverse country, and England also had one of the most multicultural fanbases in the tournament. It feels weird to root against them on anti-racism grounds, just because such diversity also attracts racists. Regions with more immigration tend to see more anti-immigration campaigners, as we see in the US along the Mexican border, or UKIP winning their first MPs on the Kent and Essex coasts. But as mentioned with the southern states above, that doesn’t justify looking down on the whole community for having both more minorities and more racists, just because the two tend to come together.

It’s easy not to have racist abuse when you have no black players in your team. The Ireland team colours are white as well as green. Adams, imported from England, was the first non-white player for Scotland in a tournament. It’s safe to say that if Rashford, Sancho and Saka were white, or if it had been Kane and Maguire who missed their penalties, there would have been no racial abuse in England either.

People in all white communities don’t get to look down at diverse communities, which have both minorities and racists, and call them inferior. It’s easy not to have visible racism when you have no diversity, but that doesn’t make you superior. That is itself a racist outlook. Multi-ethnic communities may have more ethnic tensions, all across the world, but you don’t get to smugly look down on them as somehow lesser than your homogeneous one.

A true anti-racist would support the diverse community, and support those suffering from racism, not tar them with the same brush on the basis of their nationality, or end up punishing black people for the same racism they have to live with. But that’s what hating the England team is. It seems perverse to abuse and hope a diverse team will fail, simply on the basis they will be subject to racist abuse if they do. But that’s what anti-supporting the England team is.

Playing politics

The thing is that they are contributing to the problem. The anti-English extreme nationalists just drive support to English extreme nationalism. If a country is constantly being mocked and attacked, told that they deserve it regardless of what they do or who they are, just based on their nationality, that will inevitably shore up a toxic version of their own national identity in defence.

It’s the same reason that support for Scottish nationalist politicians has shored up support for the nationalist right wing in England, and vice versa. The two dance around as enemies, but they benefit from each other’s presence, pointing to them as a bogeyman to paint a false dilemma. They know what they’re doing. When it’s portrayed ‘us or them’, people choose the lesser of two evils, just as fascists and communists have always thrived out of people fearing the other group, and encouraged that fear as a recruitment tactic.

But once you start a slinging match of ‘my country’s better than yours’, everybody loses; especially migrants and minorities. The anti-fans say they oppose the problems of racism and xenophobia, but they are actively making them worse by escalating this toxic discourse, creating a hostile, aggressive atmosphere for everyone. The best counter to English nationalism is togetherness, friendship, recognising common ties, establishing those links. You’re not opposing the Brexit mindset by taunting random English people that all of Europe hates them, you’re reinforcing it and telling them they have nowhere else to go.

It also suits foreign politicians to frame this as an English thing, because it allows them to avoid examining whether the same problems exist at home. It’s the same trick as when English politicians tried to pass BLM off as an American thing, ‘that doesn’t happen here;, and criticise the US rather than consider the skeletons in their own closet.

There have been similar takes from those snobs who look down on football anyway, seizing upon this as a way to sneer at football fans as uneducated racists, rather than realising racism is everywhere and we should all be banding together to fight it in every context. If we all have that in common, we should focus on that, rather than treating it as a competition to feel smug about and bin off whole countries as a way to avoid looking at ourselves.

Does England have a racism problem? Yes. Of course it does. Is racism an England problem? No. Most countries could do more to fight racism, and pretending otherwise abandons anti-racism for nationalism. I can say with confidence and depression that the abuse would have happened in virtually any other country in Euro 2020, had the same thing happened there. Look at the French fans abusing Mbappé the week before. Look at how some Italian fans treat black players in everyday league matches, let alone if they were the source of national disappointment at a moment they had been waiting 55 years for.

Politics isn’t even an excuse. Yes, England has a right wing, nationalist government (or technically, the UK does). But the majority backed taking the knee, even when the Prime Minister and Home Secretary were against it. Even moderate Tories have never had majority support in recent times. Their culture war nonsense does not speak for the whole population. This is also a country with a progressive recent history, at least relative to the rest of Europe, even if the current incumbents (or encumbrance) have put this progress in reverse.

Look at Ireland for context. The UK government was roundly criticised this week for cutting the rate of foreign aid, which had been steady at 0.7% of GNI (the fifth highest in the world), to 0.5% (still seventh in the world). The rate in Ireland has been 0.31%. Ireland legalised abortion in 2018, when it had been legal in England since 1968. Same-sex marriage was legalised in 2015, two years after England. According to the UNHCR, the UK had 48% more refugees per capita than Ireland in 2014, and processed 77% more asylum claims per capita between 2015 and 2017.

At no point during this period have England fans felt the need to launch a crusade against the Ireland national team, watching every qualifying game, cheering on Sweden, Belgium, Italy, in Euro 2016, wearing France shirts and cheering and jeering as they were knocked out. Because a country having less progressive politics is not a reason to do that. It would be nice if someone remembered that, now that the tide has turned.

People are now suggesting that England should be punished for the racism and fan behaviour by being prohibited from hosting another tournament for a long time. To this, I would remind them that the last tournament was hosted by Russia, this one was hosted by Russia, Azerbaijan and Hungary, and the next one will be hosted by Qatar. English politics are not enough to justify that, either. As above, it also wouldn’t exactly help Rashford, Sancho and Saka to punish them again.

None of this should come down to how contemptible Boris Johnson is, any more than it should come down to a minority of repulsive fans. As I said above, the players and manager have shown themselves to be decent, respectful people. Tens of millions of England fans are too. Judge England on them. After all, each of them does more to counter the hundreds of nationalist idiots than a hundred nationalist idiots from other countries lumping them all together with a sense of smug superiority.

It’s worth saying that I also came across a lot of decent, level-headed Scottish and Irish people replying to the abuse where they found it, saying they were happy to allow England their success and that this rabid anti-Englishness was unnerving even to them. They had often lived in England or had English friends in real life, and said they had found all the English people they actually met to be decent.

I saw some explain this was a stereotype fed by one nationalist to another, which was all they knew, having not actually interacted with the reality. They only knew the English as the Enemy, after years of political rhetoric blaming everything on Westminster, just as Johnson once blamed everything on Brussels, leading to stereotypes and xenophobia in England. As always, nationalist hatred comes out of both general public ignorance and the stoking of existing divisions for political gain.

It seems that every culture has nationalists who will scapegoat a group of people as The Other, based on race or nationality, to reinforce own sense of superiority, But we don’t fight that urge by giving into it ourselves. We fight it by reaching across borders and differences, realising that decent people on one side or the other are not in competition, measuring how many racists they have living close to them to put the other people down, but natural allies who should sympathise and show solidarity with one another.

Finally, it is worth mentioning on an upbeat note that love wins. Many anticipated the abuse and showered Rashford, Sancho and Saka in messages of support. When the mural of Rashford in his hometown was defaced by a few racist thugs, thousands rallied to decorate it in hearts and heartfelt messages. It’s important to address the awful behaviour, but anyone who defines a country by the former rather than later just wants to divide it, and amplify the worst voices. Let’s not do that.

A sad ending

I love international football. Every morning during the tournament I checked my phone for news on the England team, and every morning I woke up to abuse. Most of it not from England’s opponents, past or present, but from Scotland and Ireland fans dressed up as them.

Look, I wouldn’t expect fans of neighbouring nations to support England after their own elimination or failure to qualify. I do it for them, and the reaction in England to Scotland’s qualification was to be happy for them and excited to have two other Home Nations in the tournament, just as they were happy for Wales during their fairy-tale run in 2016. Most of their players play and live in England, so they are friendly and familiar faces.

But sure, I don’t expect any support. I understand they are rivals, even if the hatred can sometimes run a bit one-sided. But this anti-support isn’t rivalry, it’s obsession. It’s sad. If a Spurs fan watched every Arsenal game to watch them fail, just so they could seek out Gunners on social media and mock them, they would rightly be seen as a pathetic, toxic person. If you had a mate who did that, you’d suggest they find some new hobbies, or perhaps seek counselling as that level of all-consuming hate is worrying. It’s like the mindset of stalker.

England registered their best tournament finish in my lifetime, and possibly the best I will ever live to see, but the level of negativity and insults made it hard to even enjoy what should be at heart a game. It’s supposed to be fun, not day after day of scrolling though harassment. You know the way a bad loser sucks all the fun out of a game for everyone else? I don’t understand why they can’t just let other people have nice things. Can English people, not so different from people anywhere in the world, not get to enjoy the first final in their life, after decades of disappointment, without haters seeking them out to remind them the whole world hates them and hopes they fail? Why? Does any other fanbase do this, even in other sports?

Perhaps England fans are obnoxious winners, but no more so than any top club side. If they make more noise than international heavyweights like Germany, it’s because it means more: fans have been waiting for longer, and any foray into the later stages is an emotional high, rather than something that happens every few years. It’s like Liverpool winning the league after thirty years: they were called the Unbearables, because they celebrated a lot harder than City picking up their fifth title in a decade. Their slogan was literally This Means More. You can forgive them a little excitement.

But even if they are, I wouldn’t trust these people to know. Let’s be honest, if you’re going to devote a month of your life to a hate campaign against everyday English people who just want to cheer their team on, determined to suck every last bit of that fun away, you probably hate them so much that even an English smile feels obnoxious to you. That’s your problem, not theirs.

As noted above, from within England it seems a strange idea that the English think they are best, when they seem to spend most of the time defeatist, wishing they were more like Germany or Spain or France. Meanwhile all of these comments are incredibly clear that they think Ireland is superior to racist, stupid England. There’s a healthy dose of irony there.

But if there’s one thing worse than a graceless winner, it’s a bad, graceless loser, and these Scottish and Irish fans have to be the worst losers in football. They are so unwilling to accept a rival doing better than them that they do this. In fact, they get to be both, as those adopting Italy (after Germany, Ukraine, Denmark, each time telling English fans they were going to get destroyed) showed no class in immediately jumping to mock the heartbroken English on ‘their’ victory, whilst most English fans and pundits were congratulating Italy as deserved champions. Sad losers and obnoxious winners, which would no doubt be proven if they ever won anything.

Something to bear in mind the next time we hear about England having the most obnoxious fans in the world.

#football

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immortalled · 4 years

Text

Some highlights and trivia from the Misfits series 1 scripts that no one asked for (extremely long post ahead):

Episode 1

- Jeremy feels somewhat more manipulative and selfish. It’s nothing new that he’s the reason Louise kicked Nathan out, but there’s a deleted scene where he comes in immediately after Louise has booted Nathan, Louise is crying, and he just tells her “You’re doing the right thing. We need this.” And I dunno. I get it, but somehow seeing it just makes the whole situation feel scummier. I could be biased.

- After getting her powers and losing her fiancé, Kelly cries all night. Again, no surprise, but it hurts getting confirmation. :(

Episode 2

- The old woman Nathan pushes in a wheelchair does in fact roll out the door when he lets go. RIP Joan. Some say that if you listen carefully, you can hear her still rollin’ to this day.

- The old “SHE’S STEALING YOUR PENSION” war vet is named Stan. Stan has some serious PTSD. Please protect Stan.

- Alisha thinks Sally is lesbian.

- Simon’s wardrobe is inspired by Joy Division’s Ian Curtis. I’ve never seen Curtis dance, but apparently Rheon incorporated some of Curtis’ dance moves into Simon’s character.

- There’s a deleted scene where the gang finds Nathan in the community centre, staring sadly at a photo of Ruth which has been put up in her memory. Robert really keeps playing the same characters, doesn’t he?

Episode 3

- When Kelly and Jodi are fighting, Socha accidentally headbutts Mojekwu for real. Whoops.

Episode 4

- The athletic segments are filmed at the Crystal Palace Athletics Stadium.

- In a deleted scene, Kelly calls Simon a “good-looking bloke” and tells him he should get a girlfriend. She also says that “loads of girls like sweet, quiet guys”. Simon is touched by this and immediately asks if she’s single.

- Nathan was only supposed to kiss the bowling ball. Of course Sheehan had to be weird and lick it instead. Disgusting.

- Simon’s jerk friend, Matt, sounds a little less like a jerk in the script. He’s actually guilty and feels more sympathetic. Doesn’t make him embarrassing Simon in front of everyone any better, though.

- The original plan was for Simon to turn against the main cast and evolve into a supervillain by the end of season 1, which is one reason why Simon is so horribly creepy in S1 (namely perving on the girls).

- Confirmation that Simon is excited by vulnerable / unconscious girls. #yikes

- Nathan’s dad, Mike, is named “Gareth” in the script. “Gareth” canonically thinks Nathan is an “inconvenience”.

- Tony’s surname was originally “Warren” instead of “Morecombe”.

Episode 5

- There’s a note in the script that says “Curtis’ rap during his self-assessment therapy with Sally is the only improvised dialogue in the whole of Series 1“ and I’m not entirely sure, but I think that’s probably a typo. Either we missed out on Curtis’ special hidden talent for rapping, or that should say “Nathan” and Sheehan adlibbed the Ruff In The Jungle Business. I think the latter is more likely.

- Sally tells Simon in a deleted scene that she was teased as a child for being fat.

- Simon, while talking to Sally at the pub about trying to burn Matt’s house down, has a wave of guilt about peeking up Kelly’s skirt outside the club in the last episode.

- Confirmation that Sally begins to have genuine feelings of attraction toward Simon. #yikes yikes

- The scene with Nathan picking up the baby took over half a day to shoot because the babies kept crying.

- Kelly originally snaps Nathan out of Finn’s hypnotism by pushing herself into his thoughts. Which I think is fascinating because I don’t remember her telepathically communicating with characters before.

- The BMX footage that Simon shows Sally is supposed to be Superhoodie. Hello, plot-holes and paradoxes.

- In a deleted scene, Nathan says he’s jealous that Kelly has “two powers”; being able to hear other people’s thoughts and talk to people telepathically. Seriously sad that this ability was removed in the final cut.

- In another deleted scene, Simon suggests that maybe their powers are changing. Kelly seems to agree. Rachel and a lot of Virtue symbolism also appear early; the gang unknowingly disrespect Rachel by sloshing water on one of her Virtue banners and walking over/on it as they pass.

- Yikes. Deleted scene that alludes to Nathan’s possible alcohol problem with a shot of the community centre’s kitchen and all the empty bottles.

- In another deleted scene, after Kelly questions Nathan about his dad, Nathan complains (revealingly) about Kelly getting in his head. Things get a little flirty, Kelly teases him and serves potato letters with the chicken nuggets. She spells “PRICK” out on Nathan’s plate. It’s really cute.

- Not only was Simon supposed to be the supervillain, but he was supposed to die at the end of season 1.

Episode 6

- “Virtue” was originally called “Respect”, but had to be changed because a political party used the same name.

- The girl in the opening scene, the one Alisha knew from school, is Ellie. Presumably the same Ellie Alisha mentions in episode 1.

- The two other Virtue members that pass the gang are named Danny and Lucy.

- This deleted scene was too good not to write out. Simon, Kelly, and Nathan are discussing how to solve their Virtue problem and save Curtis and Alisha:

NATHAN relents, thinks a moment, has an idea...

NATHAN: Okay. How about we spike them?

KELLY’s exasperated.

NATHAN: We get them off their tits on acid. They’re hallucinating so bad they puke. When they come down, maybe they’re back to normal.

SIMON: D’you think that’ll work...?

NATHAN: Hands up who has a better idea.

Neither SIMON nor KELLY put their hand up.

NATHAN: Then I’ll call my dealer...

NATHAN whips out his phone.

Cutting to a character that was revealed in another deleted scene that I didn’t list, Chewy. Massive stoner, surrounded by a variety of pills, yada yada. Chewy’s phone rings, he answers.

NATHAN: Chewy? It’s Nathan. Can you sort us out with some trips?

CHEWY: I don’t deal drugs any more.

We now see that CHEWY is using his other hand to comb his previously unruly hair into a neat side parting, which looks utterly ridiculous...

CHEWY: Nathan, mate. I’m telling you, drugs are bad news.They lead to a life of crime, mental illness and prostitution.

NATHAN’s horrified by the response. He quickly ends the call, looks at KELLY, who can see there’s something badly wrong...

NATHAN: (appalled) They’ve got to him... Chewy... That boy’s been stoned every day since he was twelve. (angry, jabbing a finger) She’s gone too far this time. She has crossed the line.

- When Simon and Nathan are being surrounded by Virtue, Simon was supposed to punch Nathan instead of push him away.

- In the original script, when Simon was supposed to be evil, he kicked Nathan to the ground then battered him bloody with a baseball bat. In the storyboards, it looks like Simon intends to kill him. Nathan barely manages to escape thanks to Simon being interrupted by Virtue.

- Superhoodie was originally introduced in a series of short online films recorded by Simon.

- In a deleted scene, Nathan takes refuge from Virtue in a place called Bar X. The scene was meant to be set up as a reference to The Shining. It’s empty. Nathan gets drunk and starts to reminisce with the bartender, James, about underage drinking, pulling girls, and how many times he’s gotten sick in the toilets there. There’s some odd tension in this scene between Nathan and James and I’m not sure what it is, but it’s amusing.

- Nathan’s scene with Kelly in her flat is longer. There were some funny lines about her track suit and a lot more awkward fumbling as he tries to compliment the chav look.

- There was supposed to be a Vegas Baby-esque montage of Nathan “arming” himself and getting dressed to infiltrate Virtue. We were ROBBED.

- Kelly was supposed to stroke Nathan’s hand affectionately after putting his iPod in the coffin with him. R O B B E D .

- The graveyard scenes were filmed at Kensal Green Cemertary.

- Many of the people in the club after the funeral are Virtue members.

#misfits #misfits tv #nathan young #kelly bailey #simon bellamy #alisha daniels #curtis donovan #scripts #out of immortality [ooc];#[reference placeholder];

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modreduscycle · 4 years

Text

Green Knight Pt. 1

Arthur clapped his hands, momentarily bringing a halt to the racket emanating throughout the hall. “The king has an announcement!” Kay yelled, which made even the lingering quiet conversations fall silent.

“Alright, I didn’t think I’d need to say this, and I’m not naming any names…” Despite saying that, Arthur cast a glare at his nephews, specifically Mordred, who took a sip of wine, “But enchanted mistletoe, of any kind, is not allowed. I appreciate the person or people in question obeying by the original rule of not having mistletoe enchanted to make people kiss under it, but making them non-fatally duel each other isn’t a great alternative.”

Kay didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he glanced over at Lancelot, who still had a red mark on his jaw. “It’s a great alternative when you realize what’s going on before the other person.”

“Kay, no.” Arthur was clearly trying to give his brother a death glare but failing miserably. The king sighed and repeated, “Just don’t put any more of them up, whoever it was.” He looked at his nephews again and Gaheris laughed, giving away his involvement in the scheme as well. The others managed to keep it together a little better, although Gareth looked a little abashed at being basically scolded by their king.

“So, as much as I absolutely love the violence this has caused, are there any kissing mistletoes?” Agravaine whispered to Mordred.

The magic knight shook his head, grinning. “That was specifically against the rules.”

“Pity, there are so many people here who need some romance in their lives.” Agravaine not-so-subtly pointed at Gawain and rolled his eyes.

“I saw that!”

“You were supposed to,” Agravaine deadpanned. “Seriously, Father’s getting worried. You know how awkward it is to get a letter asking you to get your older brother married and/or laid?”

“Is Christmas really the time to bring this up?” Gawain asked.

“Apparently Father thinks so,” Agravaine retorted.

“You are his heir,” Gareth reminded.

“A prince?” Gaheris prompted.

“Supposed to make more heirs?” Mordred added.

Gawain groaned and put his head on the table. “Any of you want to switch places with me?”

“Yeah, no. Have fun, crown prince,” Agravaine teased.

“It’s a vassal kingdom!” Gawain complained. “Why is it a big deal?”

“The key word there is, ‘kingdom,” Mordred reminded.

Gawain ran his hand down his face. “Here’s a game we can play: no one mention romance, inheritance, or family duties until the new year.”

His brothers all muttered their agreement with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Arthur wasn’t eating yet, wanting either something exciting to happen or someone to tell a good enough story before he started with the feast. Some of the knights were attempting to regale him with various tales, but most of them were just things they had done, which Arthur already knew about.

Gawain started to reach for the wine when the door burst open, bringing the chill air with it in a flash of cold. Everyone in the room stopped and looked at the newcomer.

The man was tall, really tall, to the point where between him and Galehaut, the literal half giant, it would be hard to tell at a glance who was taller. His hair was a deep vibrant green, with his skin an only slightly lighter emerald hue. His clothes, his eyes, his axe, everything about this man was green. It was like someone poured dye all over him. Even his horse was green, dappled in varying shades of the color. A bushy green beard covered the lower half of his face, looking insanely fluffy and soft. He half-wondered what it would feel like kissing him with it. That thought caught Gawain by surprise and he looked away, blushing, just as the green knight started to speak.

“I really hope this is the court of King Arthur. The last guy I visited wasn’t so happy about the mistake,” the Green Knight commented, brushing flakes of snow off his cloak. His voice was deep and melodious, flowing like honey into Gawain’s ears.

Arthur nodded and gestured to one of the tables. “Go ahead and take a seat. I can call for a servant to lead your horse to the stables.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to stay long,” the Green Knight explained. “I’m just here to issue a challenge, a game of sorts, to anyone who wants to play.”

This being the round table, everyone’s ears perked up at the word challenge. Arthur looked a little surprised, but smiled and nodded. “Alright, what’s the challenge? And are you sure you don’t want any food?”

The Green Knight hesitated and Gawain, without thinking, scooted over and patted the empty spot he had just made. The Green Knight’s gaze moved over to him and he froze for a few seconds before recovering. “Maybe something for the road just before I leave, if you still want me to. As for my challenge… you see this axe?” He twirled it the huge weapon around for emphasis.

“Hard to miss,” Kay deadpanned, somehow remaining thoroughly unimpressed by the whole thing.

The Green Knight smiled. “Well, here’s the game. One of you can take this axe and hit me in any part of my body. Then, in one year, I get to hit that person in the same place. I’ll even give you the axe to keep! How does that sound?”

Somehow, not even Lancelot looked thrilled at that game, and that was saying something. “Can we hit with the handle?” Bedivere asked.

“No, sharp part of the blade only,” the Green Knight corrected. “So who wants to play?” No one spoke for a very long time. The Green Knight looked disappointed, pouting a little. “Come on! Isn’t this supposed to be the greatest court in the land? Bravest of knights? Where’s your spirit?”

No one volunteered. Arthur looked around at his knights, then took a deep breath and stood up. “Alright, if no one else will, I guess I’ll play this game.”

“Are you crazy?” Kay snapped, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. “You’re the king! The technically heirless king, I might add.”

“Arthur, be reasonable,” Guinevere begged.

Gawain stood up. “I’ll go in your place!” He turned to the knight and, swallowing his fear and reluctance, walked toward the large man. “I’ll play your game.”

The Green Knight’s eyes brightened. “Excellent! Here, take this axe and cut anywhere, but remember, I’m going to hit you in the same place if I’m still alive so you should probably make it count.” He tossed the axe to Gawain, who almost dropped it from the sheer weight of the thing. It was night, so he didn’t have super strength even though he really, really wished he did right now. Hefting the axe up, he realized it was all or nothing. He didn’t have enough control with the weapon to make a small cut on the back of the knight’s hand, or enough precision to just take off a finger. If he wanted to live, he’d have to go for something more fatal. His eyes strayed up to the knight’s neck and before he could feel the guilt, swung.

The axe cut like butter and the knight’s head flew off, blood spurting everywhere. Gawain dropped the axe and stumbled back, waiting for the body to hit the ground. Time seemed to slow down as the decapitated corpse just stood there, until he realized everything else was moving at a normal speed. After a few more seconds, the body raised one hand and gave him a thumb’s up.

He felt like he might faint as the body turned around and picked up its severed head, putting the usually hugely important body part under its(his?) arm. He could hear Kay softly muttering, “What the sard?” over and over again with growing intensity. Every other knight seemed just as freaked out, but no one knew what to do so they just stood there, waiting.

The Green Knight grinned. “Well, won’t lie, that was pretty interesting. Come to the Green Chapel this time next year. Enjoy the axe, maybe put it up on the mantle or something. It’s more decorative than functional, after all.”

“Wait, you’re just… leaving?” Gawain asked finding his voice. The Green Knight looked surprised.

“You want me to stay after all that?” he asked.

“I mean… yes?” Gawain stuttered. “It’s got to be a long journey for you and you could use a meal— wait, can you eat while your head’s…?”

“No, but I appreciate the sentiment,” the Green Knight replied. He fell silent, then opened his travelling bag. “I might take something for the road, if you would be so generous.”

Gawain, still reeling a little bit from what just happened, took a turkey leg, a couple apples, and a loaf of bread from the table and tossed it in the bag. “Anything else you’d like?” he asked.

“No, no, really, this is too much already,” the Green Knight protested. “But thank you, Sir…?”

“Gawain, Sir Gawain of Orkney,” Gawain introduced himself. The Green Knight grabbed his hand and lifted it up with one hand and with the other brought his head down to kiss it.

“Well, Sir Gawain of Orkney, may we meet again in a year.” Gawain’s face turned bright red as the Green Knight mounted his horse again and road off into the night, lighter one axe, which had fallen to the floor in all the excitement.

Gawain stared at the door he left through, then sat back down and went back to eating without a word. Eventually, most of the other knights stopped staring at him. After a few minutes, Mordred prodded him. “Gawain?”

“Yes?”

“Did you just sentence yourself to death in a year?”

“Looks like it.”

“And did you, immediately after learning that, proceed to try and make friends with your to-be killer?”

“I may have done that too.”

“Then, and I need to make sure I have this right, did your future killer just flirt with you?”

“Also yes.”

“Okay, and did you enjoy it as much as you looked like you were?”

Gawain glanced away and took a long sip of wine to delay answering. “...maybe.”

Mordred pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gawain, we both know I would never judge you for liking men, considering I’m about as into women as Patroclus was, but do you think maybe you could not fall in love with the guy who wants to kill you for five seconds?”

“Look, he’s hot, okay?” Gawain argued.

“Don’t you like women, though?” Agravaine asked. “You had a pretty big crush on that noble girl when we were growing up, what was her name again… Muire?”

“Yeah, I like them too, but he was also really, really attractive,” Gawain argued.

Agravaine rolled his eyes. “So are you planning on proposing before or after he cuts your head off?”

“I know it’s not going to work, okay?” retorted Gawain. He sighed. “How about we don’t talk about my impending death until tomorrow. Then we can put together a list of things I should do before I die.” The mood among the siblings turned sour and they all looked back at their meals.

#I really love Gawain and the Green Knight #arthuriana #Arthurian #Arthurian legend #king arthur #gawain #gawain and the green knight #green knight

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tessa-quayle · 5 years

Text

Praise song for every hand-lettered sign

happy thanksgiving!

below is a gift fic for the awesome @merger-she-wrote - grateful for her friendship and for encouraging me to get on this site - ha!

also thankful for @jomiddlemarch who made this drabble readable and whose own writing is unparalleled

the title is from the poem “Praise Song for the Day” by Elizabeth Alexander (read at Barack Obama’s 2009 Presidential inauguration)

other notes and the same drabble can be read on AO3

_____

Julia pulled the knit hat over her ears, pearly pink with cold and matching the worn wool. Leaning against the marble column, she blew into each icy fist and watched her breath waft in the cold November air before gripping her camera to twist off the 35mm lens. As she reached into her square leather bag to exchange the lens, fingering the chrome of the 50mm, she felt a heavy warmth against her leg.

She looked down and spotted Silver - the First Cat - her deep purr reverberating through her dense body and into Julia’s jeans. Silver’s stubby white paws peeked out from the lush coat of grey fur, her lifted tail a plume. Before Julia could put away her gear to scoop up the cat, a baritone voice boomed from a distance.

“Poehler!” She saw a figure in a reflective running vest, long tights, shorts, and a tattered t-shirt waving happily at her. From a distance, two large men trailed behind in black tracksuits like shadows. He slowed to a jog as he neared, winced presumably at his left knee, its orthopedic deficits minutely chronicled in the Post, even meriting occasional mentions in the Grey Lady.

He regarded her inquisitively, panting: “What’re you doing here?”

Silver sauntered over to him, stretching herself against the taut curve of his muscled calf. He swiftly crouched down to hug the cat, his long fingers stroking her downy chest and she licked the base of his thumb. Julia instinctively raised the camera to her face, clicking at the image of the president kneeling by his cuddly pet, his tousled salt and pepper hair, the ends darkened wet with sweat, filling the frame, a perfect shot.

“I just wanted to check out the lighting before the ceremony,” Julia replied casually, tucking her camera into the bag. The pardon of the Thanksgiving turkey was scheduled later that day. A plump turkey would be trotted out, its rainbow-painted snood drooping and darting beady eyes oblivious to its fate and circumstance.

“The kids are excited about this event,” he stood up, hands on his waist, and flashed her a wide grin that made him impossibly young to be the leader of the free world. “I hope you’re coming to dinner tonight.”

“Yes,” afraid of sounding a bit too eager, she quickly added: “Official duty and all.”

“Aw come on, it’s not just official business. It’s Thanksgiving!” he insisted. “You gotta stay for dessert. I convinced the kitchen staff to let me make my famous pecan bourbon pie. With pecans from El Paso.”

“You had me at bourbon,” Julia smiled, warmed by the prospect of the rich dessert, bourbon a dark gold in a heavy tumbler, the light in the President’s dark eyes.

***

Vivian watched Gareth bring her coffee and a thick, mysterious-looking rectangular packet. He had gotten up early that morning to check the downstairs mailbox she neglected and was already half dressed for work, a buttoned white collared shirt neatly tucked into dark navy trousers, his jacket and tie in the bedroom still hanging from her mirror. “DO NOT BEND” in block print was red-stamped on the manila and black wavy stripes filled the upper corner. She slowly sliced the side of the envelope with a brass letter opener, fashioned like a fang, and peeled away the bubble wrap, popping as it revealed a card and framed photograph.

Vivian chuckled softly at the curlicue scrawl inked on the card.

“Vivi -

When we set out to fuck the patriarchy, we didn’t mean for you to take it literally.

You are sorely missed. When are you coming home? Will we ever meet Old British Dude?

Enclosed is a picture from inauguration. It needs to occupy a spot on your piano.

Happy Thanksgiving (and yes, the WH turkey lived to gobble another day),

Jules”

She failed to suppress a giggle as Gareth leaned over to study the picture more closely: Vivian in a sparkling royal blue gown with a plunging neckline and a tall, boyishly handsome man in a smart tux in black tie. His arm was draped around her, his large hand grasping the side of her bare shoulder, matching incandescent smiles beaming into the camera.

He cocked his head to the side and muttered, “That’s quite a dress. I didn’t realize you were such close friends with the President.”

“I’m not - Julia is. She’s the lead White House photographer and took this at one of the inaugural balls.”

Gareth countered: “So he just seeks out pretty voters on the day he’s sworn in? What does his wife have to say about that?”

“Oh stop,” she bristled, carefully expanding the velvety easel behind the photograph, letting it stand on the table top. “He’s just generous with his time. Though I did work my ass off for his campaign. And a few good friends are now in the administration. Marisa heads the Department of Justice. And Amy - another Amy - she’s the first psychiatrist to be Surgeon General.”

“Is his cabinet all women?”

“Mostly,” she replied, folding her arms, slightly irritated at his tone. “No one says anything when cabinets are majority men.”

“You’re blushing,” Gareth said, smiling at her.

“What?” Vivian feigned surprise and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“You adore him.”

“I adore his policies,” she huffed. “You don’t get it. You can’t imagine how … appealing it is when someone champions your right to control your own body. And when someone stands up for the voiceless and most marginalized in our society.”

“You Americans always want to fall in love with your politicians.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who probably fantasized about Thatcher.”

“That’s brutal, even for you,” Gareth shot back.

“Brutal? Or politically incorrect?” Vivian winked, finally taking the cup of coffee meant for her from his hands, and enjoying a long sip.

#fanfic #yes it's about beto #gareth mallory #ofc: julia poehler #ofc: vivian liu #he does have a cat named silver

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ronodin-can-die · 5 years

Text

Here's something dumb but I love it so you all have to suffer through this

So Lomo, son of Targon, outcast of the Fair Folk, right? He's one of two permanent prisoners in Terrabelle and it's only because he doesn't follow their neutrality policy. Based Gareth's description in the first book, I assumed that he was put in jail for like making passionate speeches in the courtyard or punching a demon in the face or something. I went back and looked at both Garreth's and Lomo's accounts and they both tell how he left Wyrmroost and started fighting. The Fair Folk eventually caught him and sent to the dungeon.

But that's kind of weird, isn't it? He didn't like the policy, so he left, but then was hunted down again? Garreth says that most who disagreed historically were either exiled or left, which is exactly what Lomo did. Yet this isolated society went out of their way to bring him back and imprison him.

In book 2, we learn that Lomo joined the Knights of Dawn. The Sphinx wrote a letter to Lord Dalgorel to tell them that Lomo was a problem to the neutrality policy. Which is dumb. So dumb. Anyone with half a mind would know that Lomo rejected the ways of his people and sought to fight, yet the Sphinx wrote the letter anyway.

The Sphinx. Who was the Captain of the Knights of Dawn. Who actually inducted Lomo into the KoD. Homeboy eventually complained back to Lord Rule Stickler to have Lomo brought back and out of the way.

Now we know that the Sphinx had a secret agenda to open the demon sanctuary the whole time. He gathered information and supplies that was relevant to his cause and would wait until he could exploit it. If something wasn't useful anymore or became too much of a bother, then they were killed off or locked up somewhere until the joined his side.

If that's the case, then what the heck did Lomo do? All we really know is he's not good at being neutral and is very passionate about said neutrality. However, that alone is not really something that is a cause for retrieval. So maybe it’s not really about him at all. It could be about the Fair Folk themselves. So that begs the question of whether or not it was a decision based on Lomo himself or the Fair Folk. (Granted, it could be both.) Let’s discuss.

Lomo is the main issue:

He's close to finding out something: an identity, a plot, a preserve, an alliance.

He's just too good and righteous and the Sphinx can't curb or control him

He's too darn sexy, and everyone keeps looking at him like "Oh no he's hot" and people are becoming all righteous while he's delivering passionate speeches about the necessity of fighting evil. The Society members are turning good, the Sphinx is now the second sexiest character... Lomo's gotta go.

That last one is my favorite and the idea that started this whole darn post.

Also note, that in all these possibilities that the Sphinx could just kill him. Historically, the Sphinx has shown little to no remorse about killing people, and yes, even those he respects. He could’ve just sent Lomo on some hazardous or terminal adventure and washed his hands of the whole business. Granted it may not have been possible to do something like that. Fair Folk are like humans +, and it could be much harder to kill them. Convincing Lomo to go on a suicide mission probably wouldn’t have worked either, I mean, the guy wants to fight, but he doesn’t want to die.

The Sphinx also wants to remain above reproach. He’s respected and is considered a voice of reason, without people even knowing he’s the Captain of the Knights of Dawn. If something shady happens, it would raise suspicions about the Sphinx, the Captain, or the security of the Knights as a whole.

The Fair Folk’s neutrality is/could be an issue:

Lomo fighting with the Knights of Dawn is a connection that opens up a potential route for Fair Folk to take if they decide not be neutral anymore.

There are other settlements of Fair Folk that are or could be influenced by Lomo, and would join the fight.

Having Lord Dalgorel capture Lomo would dissuade any other possible dissenters.

The fact that the Sphinx just didn’t kill Lomo raises some flags about what the motive was here. It would have been so easy to just off him somehow. Fair Folk may be humans +, but they’re not invincible. He could have had a traitor do it or he could have captured him. He also could have just sent Lomo back home already captured.

Instead, he wrote to the leader of the Fair Folk and told him that their way of life was under scrutiny because of the actions of one. He took what was a common action of dissenters and turned it into a problem for all the Fair Folk. The Sphinx made an example out of Lomo to the rest of the Fair Folk by essentially threatening their whole society (BDE honestly).

IDK what the exact reason was, I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough, especially with the Sphinx apparently coming back into the picture. I’m so excited to learn more about it and the Fair Folk in general though.

#dragonwatch #fablehaven #the wrath of the dragon king #dragonwatch spoilers #lomo #the sphinx #fair folk #brandon mull #kb post #theories #thank you for coming to my ted talk

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azvolrien · 5 years

Text

Blood

A short story absolutely no one asked for, but there were some things I wanted to explore a little (and I can write what I want, so there).

Rated T for discussion of adult themes (and for snuggling).

~~~

“What do you think of this for the bedroom?” asked Wygar, holding up a tin of sunny yellow paint.

Fayn wrinkled her nose. “It’s a nice colour.”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming.”

“It’s a bit bright, don’t you think? I’d rather have something more restful for the bedroom.” She turned to a shelf of lighter colours. “Maybe this sort of cream colour, or this – what would you call this one?”

“I’d call that ‘buff’.” Wygar peered at the label of the tin he held. “I see what you mean, it is a bit bright.”

“It might do for the kitchen, though.”

“I thought we were going to tile the kitchen?”

“No, just the wall with the stove, remember?”

“Oh, of course.” Wygar cocked his head. “Why do you want it for the kitchen?”

Fayn took the tin from him and turned it around, squinting at the tiny lettering on the back of the label. “It’s a bit like the colour they had on the walls in that restaurant we were at last week. It worked quite well there.”

Wygar thought for a moment. “The place with the distractingly handsome waiter?”

“Yes! Didn’t he look like he walked off the cover of a romance novel?”

“Mmm, you could have sharpened a knife on those cheekbones.” He picked up a tin of light turquoise paint. “He’s probably the free-spirited wanderer who whisks the unhappy young heiress away from her repressed, lonely life in the Imperial City.”

Fayn placed the yellow paint on their trolley. “That’s a weirdly specific description.”

“My mother has a collection of them that she thinks I don’t know about. I may have… browsed a few of them in my feckless youth.” Fayn raised an eyebrow. “Most of them.” Wygar coughed. “All of them. A-anyway, what about this turquoise for the bathroom?”

“No argument there – it goes well with the tiles we picked out for the floor. So, for the bedroom – the cream or the buff?”

Wygar put the turquoise down next to the yellow and rubbed his chin. “Hmm… The buff. It’s a slightly warmer colour, you know? And it’s a little darker, which I think you’d prefer for your eyes.”

Fayn rubbed her forehead against his shoulder and added the buff paint to the trolley. “We’re going to need a few more tins of each.”

They paid for the tins of paint and a few brushes and rollers and wheeled the trolley out to where Rathus waited in the street, his back laden with panniers instead of his usual saddle. A young woman who had been determinedly tugging on his reins dropped them and ran off.

“He only listens to me, you know!” Wygar shouted after her before shaking his head and loading the first of the tins into a pannier.

“These won’t be too heavy for him, will they?” asked Fayn, stacking the panniers on his other side.

“Nah, you and I together weigh more than a few tins of paint, and he can carry us just fine.” Wygar tucked one of the paintbrushes down the side of the tins. “I’m not actually sure what his upper weight limit is. I’ve never managed to reach it – it seems to be more a matter of how much room he has on his back rather than actual weight.”

Rathus certainly didn’t seem bothered as they led him away from the paint shop and began the long walk back from Seacourt to Magetown.

“We probably could have rented a cart for the day,” said Wygar as Fayn paused to scrape a few flecks of grit from between her toes. “But on top of buying all the paint, this was cheaper. Plus we don’t have a draught harness for him, and I don’t know if the cart place would have had one the right size.”

“No, no, it’s sensible,” Fayn assured him, straightening up. She paused, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. “Can you hear something?”

“Yes, there’s a bit of a commotion up ahead. I can’t see what’s going on, there’s too many people in the way.”

Fayn scrambled halfway up the nearest lamppost, gripping the cast iron with her toes, and shaded her eyes to peer over the crowd gathering in the street. “Well, you know I can’t quite make out the details,” she said, “but it looks like there are some people in strange masks blocking the pavement. People keep walking out into the road to get past them, which is not making that tram driver happy.” The tram in question thundered past on its rails, drawn by a construct in harness.

“Strange masks?”

“Yes, they look like…” Fayn squinted into the distance. “They look a bit like rabbits.”

Wygar shuddered. “Ugh, them.” He looked around and sighed. “Well, any detours from here will take much too long. We’ll have to go past them.”

Fayn slid down the lamppost. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s that Temple of Plenty lot. Fanatical Kura cultists. Their local temple is quite near here, but it’s been a while since they last worked up the nerve to bother people in the streets.”

“Which one is Kura again?” asked Fayn, falling into step beside him.

“Oh, she’s the Kiraani goddess of fertility and agriculture. Most of her followers are pretty laid-back – you’ve probably seen some of her priests, they go about in green robes and circlets made of plants – but this bunch…” He shuddered again and laid one arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side. “Keep walking. Don’t make eye contact.”

About twenty of the cultists had gathered on the pavement outside an apothecary shop, solidly ignoring anyone trying to get in or out while their leader – a man in a more impressive rabbit mask – made an angry speech about people squandering the sacred gifts of Kura. The apothecary peeked out through her door, frowned, and went back inside to pointedly place a sign advertising contraceptive medicines and anti-fertility charms in the shop window.

Most of the cultists seemed happy to stand in place and yell their support of their leader’s speech, but Wygar, Fayn and Rathus had almost passed them by when one man pushed out of the group to block their path, and moved to keep doing so when they tried to walk around him. He was a little shorter than Wygar, but most people were; he still stood a few inches taller than Fayn, with a broad, powerful frame and shoulder-length blonde hair.

He pushed his mask up on top of his head and folded his arms, puffing out his chest. “Well, if it isn’t my old schoolmate Wygar Smith.”

“Darren Williams,” said Wygar in a tone of controlled neutrality. His arm tightened very slightly around Fayn.

“I see you’re not wasting your manhood any more.”

“I see you’re out of jail,” said Wygar, still in the same tone. “If you’ll excuse us, we have things we need to do.”

Darren moved to block their path again and cast an appraising eye down over Fayn, pausing at her midriff for the barest moment, then grabbed her chin and roughly turned her head to one side.

“Well, mostly not wasting it,” he amended with a grin.

Fayn bared her teeth with an audible growl. “You want to keep those fingers, get them off my face.”

Darren wisely withdrew his hand, though his smile remained. “You couldn’t find any women of your own kind who’d have you?”

“Darren,” said Wygar, his voice still mostly expressionless but beginning to tremble, “it’s quite clear that prison didn’t have the hoped-for rehabilitating effect on you, but I have much better things to do than debate the matter. Goodbye.”

“Gods, looks like the College really pulled your teeth,” said Darren as they finally managed to get past him. “I remember the day you lost your temper at school – you threw me across the yard and shattered half the windows!”

Wygar stopped walking.

“Wygar…” murmured Fayn.

“It’s all right,” he whispered back, and gave her another squeeze. “You think they pulled my teeth?” he said to Darren. “It’s more accurate to say that they taught me some things aren’t worth biting. However,” he went on when Darren opened his mouth again, doubtless to make some witty rejoinder, “if you give me reason to believe you pose a genuine threat to my loved ones, you will see first-hand how sharp my teeth are.”

“That a threat, longears?”

“I prefer to call it a warning,” said Wygar in a voice like midwinter.

“Out of curiosity,” asked Fayn, “d’you know what happened to the last person who laid a hand on me without my permission?”

“Uh, no?”

Fayn bared her teeth again, growing them into fangs. Darren’s eyes widened, and he quickly slid his mask back down to hide them. “Neither does anyone else. Come on, my love – we’ve got a lot of painting to do.”

“Are you all right?” asked Wygar as they left Darren and the rest of the cultists behind. “Is your jaw sore?”

“No, it’s fine,” said Fayn, rubbing it. “Well done for keeping your temper, though – I thought you were going to put him through a building when he grabbed me.”

“Oh, believe me, I wanted to – and I would have if he hadn’t let go. But you seemed to have it under control.”

“What did he mean by that ‘wasting your manhood’ comment?”

“Oh. That.” Wygar sighed. “You know that I’ve had male lovers.”

“Yes, Rhys and Gareth and the rest.”

“Well, since fertility is a ‘sacred gift of Kura’,” Wygar waved his hands, rolling his eyes, “the Temple of Plenty holds that any and all sex which won’t result in conception is an unforgivable waste of that gift. So they’re not fond of same-sex relationships, contraception, really most things two people can get up to in a bedroom… Or marriage, come to that. They believe people must, uh, sow their wild oats as widely and as often as possible, or it’s still squandering Kura’s gift.”

“Riiiight.”

“Anyway, about, let me think, about eleven years ago, I was out with my boyfriend Morgan – you haven’t met him, we haven’t really been in touch recently – when Darren and a whole gang of his fellow Plentyist thugs showed up and took exception. Things might have been a lot worse if the City Watch hadn’t shown up when they did, but even so Morgan and I ended up in the hospital overnight.”

“Was that what he went to jail for?”

“That and a few other incidents they were involved in that night.”

Fayn glanced back over her shoulder, but the cultists were out of sight behind a bend in the road. A couple of gryphons in City Watch harnesses flew overhead towards the apothecary shop. “Then he gave me that weird look and said ‘not totally’ – what was that about?”

“That, cariad, was a snide reference to how you are not yet pregnant.”

“Oh.” Fayn laid a hand on her belly. “No, I’m not.”

“And so apparently I have not been doing my proper duty making use of Kura’s gift. He was a nasty little boy at school and he grew up to be even worse as a man. Don’t pay him any mind – I stopped long ago. C’mon, let’s get all this paint home. Want to start on the bedroom first, to get it out of the way?”

“Huh? Oh, yes – that sounds like a good idea.” Fayn took his hand and leant against his side. “And anyway, you aren’t wasting anything,” she said with slightly forced brightness, and grinned. “You make excellent use of your ‘manhood’, and it’s perfectly adequate to the task.”

“Thank you, cariad, that’s just how every man wants to have portions of his anatomy described.”

With everything in their bedroom covered with either dust sheets or wet paint, they set up camp in the living room for the night, piling cushions from the sofa and the chairs onto the floor and covering everything with a spare bedsheet and quilt. Compared to a farm hayloft or a sleeping bag in the forest, it made a cosy enough nest and was far from the most awkward place they had slept.

Wygar wandered back through from brushing his teeth in the kitchen, fidgeting with the drawstring of his pyjama trousers.

“You’ve still got your hair tied back,” Fayn observed from the floor-nest.

“And you do not appear to be wearing a nightdress,” said Wygar. “So I suppose we both had a similar idea for tonight.” He slipped his trousers off and abandoned them on the floor, before he settled down on his side and pulled over his half of the quilt, lying face-to-face with Fayn. For a moment he leant in as if to kiss her, but drew back to study her face instead. Fayn sighed and bowed her head.

“You’ve seemed a bit… distracted all afternoon,” said Wygar, gently tilting her face back up to meet his eyes. “What’s eating you?”

Fayn sighed again. “It’s… not something I usually even think about, let alone worry, but those cultists brought it to the front of my mind today.”

“Don’t give them any room in your head, cariad. Not so much as an inch.”

“No, this is something I need to talk to you about.”

Wygar brushed his fingers through her hair and down over her back. “I’m listening.”

Fayn took a deep breath. “It’s been eight months since we got back from the Northern Forest and you stopped wearing the anti-fertility charm.”

“It has.”

“And, as your old schoolmate noticed… I am not pregnant.” Wygar opened his mouth, but Fayn placed a finger over his lips before he could speak. “Most Falkari wouldn’t spend more than a few hours at a time as an animal,” she continued. “But growing up alone in the forest, I often went for months on end without once returning to human form. Between that and never quite getting enough to eat until I came to Stormhaven, it… it played havoc with my cycles. Even now they’re… Irregular. Unreliable. So when he made that comment earlier, it did set me wondering if…” She trailed off, breaking eye contact.

“Maybe it did something permanent,” finished Wygar.

Fayn nodded.

“Oh, Fayn.” Wygar touched his forehead to hers. Her eyes met his again and she gave a half-hearted smile. “My turn, then. I’ve been doing a bit of my own reading since the Northern Forest. We know, with certainty, that humans and elves can interbreed. We’ve met proof of it in person.” He paused, holding his breath for a moment. “But it’s been studied as well, and it’s well-documented that the chances are a little… reduced. That’s why he turned your head like that – he was checking the shape of your ears. So whatever effect your life in the forest had,” he rested one hand on her belly, “if it’s a factor, it’s not the only one. Nothing is on your shoulders alone.”

Fayn wound both arms around his ribs and huddled in close, nestling her head beneath his chin. “What do we do?”

“We can always see a healer, if you want to.” Wygar wrapped one arm around her, stroking her hair with his other hand. “Other than that… We keep going as we have been and take the chances we get, because stress won’t help them much.”

Fayn quivered with an unvoiced laugh, trailing her fingers along the tattoos on his back. “No, I suppose it won’t.” Her breathing slowed and deepened as she relaxed in his arms and pressed a kiss beneath his jaw. “So let’s try a little stress relief, eh?”

Wygar ran both hands down her back, conjuring warmth around his fingers, and nuzzled carefully from the crown of her head down to her throat, making her eyes flutter half-closed and her breathing tremble. “I do still have my hair tied back,” he noted with a smile in his voice.

“Mmm… And you know I don’t really like changing plans at the last minute,” said Fayn.

“What sort of mood are you in?” asked Wygar, kneading tiny circles on her lower back with the tips of his fingers.

“You know what?” Fayn slid both arms around his neck, kissing him slowly. “Tonight… Let’s just see where it takes us.”

~~~

Wygar’s bisexuality doesn’t come up very often, as he prefers not to gossip about previous relationships, but I try to make it fairly unambiguous on the occasions that it does. He’s fortunate enough to live in a world where homophobia isn’t really a widespread problem; the Temple of Plenty are more-or-less the only ones who pose an issue on that front, and while they’re quite loud they’re not that numerous.

#az writes stories

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ghchgc · 3 years

Text

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bazypitchandsimonsnow · 6 years

Text

Flowers

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 7067

Summary: Simon's life is upturned by another man bursting into his family flower shop.

Read on AO3

AN: Okay this will probably be the longest fic here. I let it spin out of control. It's not my best writing, I know. But I hope blushy embarrassed Simon makes up for that. Shoutout to my Tumblr bestie @carryonmylovelies because this fic would not exist without her. She gave me so many ideas and so much support. She is the real MVP.

Simon

I’m lounging on the counter when he bursts in. The man who disrupts my whole life.

Working at a flower shop is usually slow as hell. So when my Mum is out, I can get away with lying on the front counter, throwing my red ball up in the air, thinking about my next assignment for uni (unfortunately).

He slams the door open violently, causing an equally violent crashing noise. I yelp and roll off behind the counter.

“Ouch,” I mumble, rubbing my bruised elbow.

“Mother, I’m here, alright?” Injury causing man shouts. “You can stop freaking out. I will get the bouquet, then I will take a cab right back. Stop yelling! It will not make me do it any faster. Dear lord, Mum, you’re not going to have any voice for your speech if you keep going like this. Goodbye, Mother. Bye!”

He rapidly hits the counter bell, sending out a loud and annoying ‘ding ding ding’. “Hello? Anyone here?”

Shit, I’m still on the ground. I bounce up. And my breath catches.

He’s my age, I think. But he’s about ten times more attractive, which is wholly unfair. His high cheekbones look like were carved by a renaissance sculptor. His hair is dark and slicked back with a stark widow’s peak, like some thirties era movie villain. The impeccable black suit only helps that comparison. He looks at me blankly with deep, swirling grey eyes, and I lose my ability to form speech.

“Hello?” He says, waving an elegant long fingered hand in front of me. “Are you a mannequin or something?”

Shit, still haven’t said anything. I shake my head. “No, no. Hi! Welcome to Rosebud Flowers, how can I help you?”

“I need a table arrangement.”

I wait for him to say more. But he keeps standing there, both hands on the counter. “You’re...going to need to be more specific than that.”

He sighs and rubs his forehead. “Your store filled an order for Grimm-Pitch yesterday, correct?”

“Yeah,” I say flatly. Of course I remember. I assembled half those arrangements myself. My hand hurt for hours after trimming them.

“Well, they’re for a gala, and my little sister broke one of the arrangements today so my mother is having a melt down over it. Could you possibly assemble one more?”

I scratch the back of my neck nervously. “Uh, well, we’re out of black roses, because of your order yesterday-”

“Dammit!” Handsome man slams his fist on the counter, making me jump. He massages his temple. “Sorry. Just, not looking forward to telling my Mum.”

He looks less angry now. More at his wit’s end, really. Damn, I feel bad for him.

“But...” I say tentatively. “I’ve got some regular red ones. Would that okay?”

His head snaps up. He smiles brightly. I try to ignore the way my pulse stutters at that bright grin. “Yes! That’d be marvelous!”

I smile back, and my heart nearly beats out of my chest. “Gimme like, five minutes.”

I race to the back of the store. We keep most of the roses in the back, because they tend to sell out way too fast. With practiced speed, I assemble an identical arrangement to the ones I did yesterday. (Considering the number of these things I made, the image is practically burned into my brain.) I add the last complementary green parrot tulip, take a final look, and dash out.

“Here!” I say, holding it up. Mystery Posh Man sighs with relief.

“Thank you so much,” he replies. “You have just literally saved my life. You’re a superhero.”

I really hope the heat on my face isn’t too obvious. “No problem, man.”

“Here. For the trouble.” He puts 50 quid on the counter and my eyes bulge out.

“Oh my god! No, you don’t have to. Your Mum already paid for the order. And that-that’s way too much.”

He shakes his head. “I insist. I came barging in here like a madman and you still helped me.”

I shrug, a smile pulling at my mouth. “Well, it is my job.”

He chuckles and it sounds like a warm breeze. “Please.” He pushes the bill forward. “Please just take it. It’ll feel wrong if you don’t.”

I chew on my lip. The feeling turns in my gut uncomfortably. Part of me feels bad for wanting to take it. But, on the other hand, I did race around making it for him. And he made me bruise my elbow. And...he’s really cute. Not taking it would make him sad. I don’t want to know what he looks like sad.

I sigh, and take the money. “Thank you,” I say.

He grins ear to ear. “You’re welcome.”

“Good luck at the gala.”

“Thank you. Believe me, I need it.” He rolls his eyes and flashes me one last smirk. Then he’s out the door. And by extension my life. My stomach aches realising I’ll probably never see him again. I sigh. Oh well, I guess. Not like anything interesting ever happens to me anyway.

Penny warned me about back problems caused by excessive textbook carrying. I didn’t listen to her, but right now I fucking wish I did. My spine feels like it’s been bent into a question mark. I’m practically doubled over as I trudge down the sidewalk. And I’m still twenty minutes from home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little coffee shop, “The Midnight Grind.” My stomach growls, promptly reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since a granola bar for lunch. (It’s like my whole body hates me, honestly.) Shit, I could really use a bite to eat.

I dig around in my pockets for some change, but pull out the 50 pound note instead. A week later and I still haven’t used it. Not that it’s bad or I haven’t needed it. I’d just feel weird using a fifty for anything. But considering my lack of any other funds, I guess this time is as good any.

I push open the heavy café door. It’s warm and cozy. Soft lights, pine wood tables, burgundy armchairs. Everything just feels calmer in here. I go to the counter, where a beautiful blonde woman is at the register. Her name tag says “Agatha”.

“Hello,” she says cheerily. “Welcome to the Midnight Grind. What can I get you?”

“Uh, a latte and a cherry scone please,” I reply.

“Sure thing. Name for the cup?”

“Simon.”

She scribbles out the letter on the white cup. “Awesome. Thanks Simon. Your order will be ready in a few minutes at the end of the counter.”

“Thanks.”

I trudge to the end and pull out my phone. There’s messages from Penny telling me when we’re hanging out tomorrow. There’s more from my Botany 101 study group, mostly Gareth sending plant memes. I decide to just scroll through my Instagram (which is mostly just cute dogs.) (I like dogs, sue me.)

“Alright, got one latte and cherry scone for Simon- Oh my god it’s you!”

I whip up to face the voice’s owner. And my heart stops.

He looks very different out of a suit, dressed in a white v-neck and grey apron instead. His hair is pulled back in what should be a ridiculous looking man bun, but it somehow works on him. His face is still terrifyingly sharp, but it’s softened by his square wireframe glasses and expression of utter shock. He’s frozen with the coffee and scone still in hand.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “It’s you. Posh suit guy.”

He laughs, open mouthed and amused. It still feels very warm. “Seriously? That’s how you remember me?”

“Well, you were wearing a suit.”

He rolls his beautiful grey eyes, but keeps smiling. “Believe me, that’s not what I usually wear.”

My goes hot with embarrassment. “Right! Yeah, of course. Just...wow. I didn't think I'd ever see you again.”

“Me neither. Especially since I never got your name.” He looks at the cup with a smirk. “Though I do now, 'Simon’.”

“Same goes for you Mr....” I look down at his apron, and frown in confusion. “What kind of name is ‘Baz’?”

“One that’s short for Basilton.”

I look at him blankly for a second. “What kind of name is Basilton?”

It's out of my mouth before I can stop it. I inhale sharply, waiting for him to be pissed or something. But instead, he just chuckles and shakes his head. Not even a hint of anger.

“An annoyingly posh one, obviously,” he says. “Hence why I prefer Baz.”

My anxiety melts away. I just smile back. “I can certainly understand that.”

We go silent. All the words I think of seem insufficient or stupid. I look him over. He's somehow even more attractive in casual wear. I notice he's wearing dark skinny jeans and try not to stare. But they fit him really well.

“Y’know, you should probably take these before they go cold.”

Posh Man’s- wait, no, Baz’s voice snaps me out of it. “Oh, yeah, sorry.” I take the warm cup and scone. “I should probably get home anyway. Got some much work. Uni and all...”

“Oh yeah I understand! I’m stuck here for another two hours. But...” He rubs the back of his neck. I can’t help but stare at the way his bicep flexes. (Fuck I feel like such a horny teenager.) “I’m free tomorrow. Want to hang out?”

I nod far more eagerly than I should. “Yeah! I have to work at the shop, but we could get lunch.”

He smiles. “Wonderful. Meet you at noon?”

“Sure! Sounds, awesome.” Awesome? Am I 12? Fuck he’s making all my speech dumb.

“See you tomorrow then, Simon.”

“Yeah, see you.”

I walk to the door, but sneak one last look at Baz. But he’s looking too. I wrench my gaze away before my blush gets too bad. As I walk down the street, I don’t hunch over. My body feels too light for that.

The morning at the shop goes by in a blur. I can barely focus on the present, my mind too busy imagining the future. It’s understandable right? How is someone supposed to pay attention to flower organization when they’re having lunch with a really cute posh suit wearing barista boy? I keep looking at the clock and praying it moves faster.

After an hour of no customers, I take my usual place of lounging on the counter, bouncing my ball against the opposite wall. I remember doing this for hours back at the cabin when there was nothing to do, which was most of the time. Now it’s just comforting, a familiar repetition to keep me occupied. Which I desperately need right now.

“Well this is a familiar scene.”

I nearly fall down from turning my head so violently. Baz stands at the door, smirking with his arms crossed. He’s dressed in a green t-shirt and those (amazing) black skinny jeans. Instead of slicked back or in a bun, his hair falls loose around his face. How does he look better every time I see him?

I scramble to my feet and to subtly flatten my staticky hair. “Haha, yeah...slow day again,” I say, the nervous tinge in my voice very obvious. “Ready to go?”

“Obviously. I’m here aren’t I?”

God, how does he turn me into even more of a bumbling idiot? “R-Right. Let’s go.”

My shoulder brushes his as I walk out the door. And it sends a very noticeable jolt through my system. Holy shit, what am I getting myself into?

After some debate over pizza versus Starbucks, we go with Subway. I get a ham sandwich while Baz chooses a meatball marinara. We sit opposite each other at the dingy brown table. It feels like ages before I muster up something to say.

“So, what school do you go to? I-If you’re in school, that is.”

Baz chuckles. “Yeah, I’m in school. I go to LSE.”

“Wow. That’s fancy.”

“Posh suit guy, remember?” He says with a knowing smirk.

I roll my eyes. “Oh right. With his elegant gala flower arrangements.” I lean forward more. “What ‘gala’ were those flowers for, anyway? Black roses are super fancy and expensive.”

“Well, the gala was certainly fancy and expensive. They were for a fundraising event. My mother is the headmaster at a high end private school. Gotta sway those donors right? Floral arrangements make a good first impression.”

“Damn, posh suit guy has a posh family. What a surprise.”

He rolls his eyes and pokes my shoulder (another jolt, dammit). “Shut up. How about you, huh? How did you end up at that flower shop? Not exactly a typical student job.”

I nod steadily in agreement. “Yeah, I know. Funnily enough, it has to do with my Mum too. It’s her shop. She started it after she divorced my Dad.”

His face crumbles a bit. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No no, don’t be.” I wave my hand dismissively. “He’s a total prick. We left when I was 11 and he’s talked to me a total of five times since then, all over the phone.”

Baz’s eye bulge out, making his glasses slide down his thin nose. He pushes them back up with a long finger. “Damn. And I thought my father could be an arse.”

“Yeah, no one compares to the arseholery of one Davy Mage.”

Baz laughs loudly, throwing his head back. It’s warm and hearty like a summer’s day. “His name is seriously Davy Mage?”

I shrug with a smile. “So he says. I’m pretty sure he made it up but I have no proof.”

“God, that’s rich. At least I have the excuse of my parents giving me my stupid name.”

“Yeah, at least. Hey what is your full name? Is it all stupid?”

Baz looks at me over his glasses. There’s a playful glint in his eyes that makes my heart race and palms sweat. “Sorry, rosebud boy, but I like to keep a little air of mystery.”

I groan and roll my eyes. “Fine. And please don’t call me that. It’s what my mother calls me that and it’s bloody embarrassing.”

“Oh now I’m going to use it all the time.”

I lower my forehead into my hands. “Dammit.”

He lets out another gorgeous laugh. “Your own fault.” He takes a bite of his meatball sub and the tomato sauce squirts out. It dribbles in two lines down his chin. I snort out a laugh involuntarily, earning a glare from Baz.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, lips curled in an annoyed frown.

“Nothing!” My tone isn’t very convincing. So his expression doesn’t change. “It’s just, the sauce, it looks like you’ve got blood on your chin. Like you’re a vampire or something. And I mean,” I gesture to his face, “the cheekbones and widow’s peak only help the comparison.”

He scoffs, but a smile reluctantly pulls at his mouth. “Fuck off. Can’t help if I look like an Egyptian Bela Lugosi.”

I laugh genuinely, and his smile widens. We eat and chat for what seems like forever. I almost forget I have to go back the store. Baz walks me back after we’re done.

“Okay, you seriously have four younger siblings?!” I say, trying to keep up with his long legged strides.

He sighs and nods. “Yes. Three sisters and a brother.”

“Holy shit! That must be insane!”

“Believe me, it is. Especially since two of the girls are twins. They cause twice the trouble together.”

I put a hand to my chest. “Oh my god I’m so glad I’m an only child.”

“As you should be. Small children are nightmares.”

We stand in front of the shop. Baz sighs, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “Well, this is your stop, I believe. I must say, I had fun today.”

“Yeah, me too.” I rub my wrist nervously, biting my lip.

“You know, if...you ever want to come by the Grind again, I work there during the school week. It’s a great place to study or just hang out, in my opinion.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Are you just trying to get more business for your café?”

He scoffs, punctuating with an exaggerated eyeroll. “Well, I get the same shitty wage either way, so no. Just...if you want to see me again...”

“Yeah,” I say far too eagerly. “Yeah, sure. I’d definitely like a quiet place to study.”

Baz practically beams and my heart ceases to function. “Fantastic. I guess I’ll see you again soon, Simon.” He hold his hand out. I gladly take it. His skin is rough and scratchy. I really like the way it feels against my palm.

“Yeah definitely.”

I stare at his smiling face, the rest of the world fading away around him. It takes me a few seconds to realise we’re still holding hands. Baz is looking at me a bit curiously. My face goes red and I pull away.

“S-See you,” I stutter out before quickly going into the store, not even looking back at Baz. I put my hands on the counter to steady myself. Shit, be still my beating heart, seriously. I don’t know if he’s just being friendly or, y’know, not friendly. I guess I’ll have to go to that café on Monday to find out. That’s the best option, really.

Okay, it’s official; I have a crush.

I’ve been coming to the Midnight Grind every day after school for a week. And every day I sit at a table and try to study, but my eyes keep wandering to Baz behind the counter. He smiles politely to the customers, even the rude ones. But when they’re gone he looks right at me and rolls his eyes, flashing an actual smile. It’s not just polite, but genuine and lively. And makes every cell in my brain explode like fireworks.

I’m so screwed.

“What have you got there, rosebud boy?”

Baz crashes into the chair opposite me, having finally finished his shift. He drapes across the armchair with all his long limbs.

“Got a big test on plant breeding tomorrow,” I say. (I hope if I don’t acknowledge the nickname long enough he’ll stop using it.) “Have to cram all this into my head.”

He leans forward and snatches the textbook from my lap. I’m about to protest, but Baz raises a finger, and I promptly close my mouth. He pushes his glasses onto his forehead and squints at the page. I’ve never thought that anyone looks cute while frowning, but he does. Well, he looks cute no matter what.

“This makes absolutely no sense to me,” he mutters.

“Well duh.” I snatch the book back. “You’re a finance student. You deal with numbers, not chemicals”

He humphs and pushes his glasses back down. “Chemicals are numbers, arsehole.”

“Different kinds of numbers though. I’d like to see you try to take this test.”

Baz leans forward in the chair. “Well I’d like to see you try one of my exams. I’ve got one on the history of the stock market on Tuesday.”

“That sounds like my hell.”

“Hey it’s mine too, I understand.” He tilts his head back, stretching out his long neck. “Ugh, I should probably get home and study too.”

My brain generates an idea. A terribly amazing idea. I slowly close my book. “Well, in that case, I uh, I could walk you home.”

Baz’s eyebrows shoot up, and I’m about to retract my statement. But then he smiles, the same genuine one I’ve been seeing all day, the one that makes brain fireworks.

“That’d be great. I could use some company.”

Fuck. Goodbye fireworks, hello nuclear explosion. I start packing up my stuff. “C’mon then, let’s go.”

“No no, I’m serious. Cherry scones are the best food. Ever!” I throw my arms up for effect.

Baz looks at me like I’m being an extra special idiot. “So you’ve tried every food ever made, and decided that cherry scones are the best?”

I shrug. “Well, based on the sample of foods I’ve tried, yes. They are the best.”

He shakes his head, chuckling slightly. “I’ll have to try one sometime. Just to see what all the fuss is about.”

“Obviously!”

Baz stops in front of a fancy apartment building. He smirks as he turns to look at me. “Well, looks like the roles have reversed today. This is my stop.”

“Oh, cool.” I try (and fail) to hide the disappointment in my voice. “I guess I’ll get-”

“Basil!”

We both whip around to face the very loud voice. A woman stomps towards us from inside the building, flinging the door open with violent force. She’s dressed like a punk rocker, complete with beat up leather jacket and black Doc Marten’s. She looks like Baz. Same reddish-gold skin, sharp cheekbones, and black hair. Except she’s got a blonde streak at the front. And she dresses like she never left the seventies.

“Where have you been?!” She says. “Your classes ended like, 5 hours ago!”

Baz groans and rolls his eyes. “I picked up an extra shift at the Grind tonight. I told you so this morning, but apparently you weren’t paying attention.”

She frowns. Holy shit, it makes her look even more like him. “Well you could’ve at least called. Tasha told me to look after you when you moved here and-” She looks right at me, glaring suspiciously. “Who are you?”

“I-I’m Simon Salisbury. Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand, but she just stares at that blankly too. Slowly, I drop it, looking at the sidewalk embarrassed.

“He’s my friend, Fiona. Don’t scare him.” My heart simultaneously soars and breaks at his words. I’m his friend. Just his friend. Shit...

I look up slightly. Fiona stops glaring and smirks. She crosses her arms over her Ramones shirt. “Well, you are cute.”

“Fiona!” Baz snaps. “Really?!” A little red spreads across his cheeks. Though it might be my imagination. Wishful thinking, right?

She shrugs. “Hey I’m just making an observation. By the way, we’re ordering pizza tonight. I forgot to make dinner.”

He groans. “Goddammit, not again.”

“Shut up, you made me worry. Now say bye to your...friend get the fuck upstairs. Or I’m getting the pizza with pineapples.” She starts to walk away towards the building.

“You wouldn’t!” Baz shouts after her.

She turns to flash a smile that certainly says, ‘I would,’ and enters the building again. Baz shakes his head and sighs.

“Sorry about that,” he grumbles. “My aunt likes to embarrass me for kicks. She’s the worst roommate ever, honestly. But she pays the rent, so I don’t have much choice”

“Oh it’s fine. My Mum is the same. I’d move out if I could,” I reply. “But, you should probably get up there before she orders pineapple pizza.”

“Very true. Night, Simon.” He waves, which isn’t as nice as that handshake, but I’ll take it. I wave back.

“Night, Baz.”

I walk away, smiling wider than I have in ages.

“What do you mean you can’t come in?!” I shout into the store phone. “C’mon Trixie, I can’t do this order all by myself, and my Mum isn’t back for another three hours! Yeah, I get that you have schoolwork, I do too, but-. Fine, whatever. But you’re gonna have to talk to my Mum later. Bye, bye!”

I slam the phone down. Goddammit, my life is a Hell. I groan and lean my elbows on the counter, holding my face in my hands. This is a nightmare.

The bell over the door rings. Someone walks towards me. I don’t have the energy to even look up.

“Well, what’s going on with you?”

My head snaps up so suddenly I nearly hit Baz’s chin. He stumbles back.

“Jesus, Simon! Be careful,” he shouts.

“S-Sorry, Baz. You just startled me.”

He frowns and comes forward again. “You alright? You seem stressed.”

I sigh heavily. “Yeah, I am. I’m supposed to make fifty arrangements with Trixie, our other employee, today. But Trixie just called to say she can’t come, and Mum is out making some deal with some garden catalogue, so I’m going to have to do them all on my own because God hates me.” I plant my forehead on the countertop. The solid coolness of it calms my nerves a bit.

“Well,” Baz says. “What if I help? Can’t be that complicated, right?”

I look up. He’s smiling softly, kindly. My pulse flutters. “Really? You don’t have to. It’s not going to be fun.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it enjoyable.”

God, I don’t want to make floral arrangements. I want to stare at his face forever. But we have work to do. I stand up straight. “Awesome. Let’s get started.”

It takes a few tries, but Baz and I get a good method going. The roses are already de-thorned, so Baz just needs to cut the stems so they’re even then hand them to me. He gets up to four at a time eventually. I take them and put them in the glass bowls.

“What is this order for, anyway?” Baz asks as he hands me another bunch.

“A wedding,” I reply. “Hence the yellow roses.”

“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t you want red roses for a wedding?”

I shrug a bit. “Yeah, some people would. Red roses mean love and desire. But yellow roses mean joy, friendship, and promise of new beginnings. Much more appropriate for a wedding, in my opinion.”

Baz makes a surprisingly intrigued “hm” sound. “Do all flowers have meanings?”

“Most of them, yeah. Daisies mean innocence and hope. Bluebell means humility. Sunflower means adoration. If you want to say something, there's almost certainly a flower for it.”

“Interesting,” Baz mumbles. “Do they teach you all this stuff in botany class?”

I scoff and grab another group of roses. “I wish. No, my Mum did. Back when we lived with my Dad in his stupid cabin in the middle of nowhere, she had a huge flower garden. She would get me to help her plant the flowers and tell me what they meant. Had this big book too. I knew flower meanings before I knew what a door was called.”

“Wow. You were really raised on this shit, huh?”

“Yup! Live and breathe flowers. Thank my Mum for that.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

We both look up to see my mother in the doorway, walking towards us. Her curly hair is piled on top of her head in glowing blonde mound. She’s dressed like a hippie like always, with her long layered skirt and worn sweater.

“Hey Mum,” I say happily. “Just talking about how my love for flowers is most certainly learned.”

“Definitely, no question. I indoctrinated you young.” She leans forward and kisses my forehead. My face heats up from embarrassment. God, does she have to do that in front of Baz? She turns to look at him.

“Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, sorry. Mum, this is Baz Grimm-Pitch. Baz, this is my mother, Lucy Salisbury.”

He reaches out to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Salisbury.”

She gladly shakes his hand. “Pleasure’s all mine, Baz. Especially since you’re helping with my business.”

“Well, your son was being so pathetic I just had to help.”

I scoff and knock his shoulder. “Arsehole. You offered!”

He knocks back, shoving back harder with his obviously greater strength. “Only because you looked like a kicked puppy.”

I stick my tongue out. He laughs beautifully. I think I could listen to that laugh for the rest of my goddamn life.

“Well you can go now if you like, Baz,” my Mum says. “Simon and I can finish up.”

My chest seizes for a second. Shit, Mum! Don’t do this! I expect Baz to get up and leave. But he merely flashes a polite, kind grin.

“No, it’s fine. We’ve got a good rhythm here. You can rest and we’ll do it.”

Mum raises an eyebrow. She looks at me curiously, as if to ask ‘you okay with this?’ I nod vigorously. Her face shifts into a lopsided smile.

“Very well. If you two are doing so well, I’m happy to leave you to it. I’ve got soap operas to watch. Good to meet you, Baz.” She ruffles my hair (like I’m five years old). “And see you later, my rosebud boy.”

I roll my eyes as she walks out to go to our apartment above. Baz chuckles.

“So she really does call you that,” he says, sounding far too amused.

“Yes, all the time,” I grumble. “Even though I’m bloody 19.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s cute. It seems your adorableness is genetic.”

My cheeks heat up. I focus on the arrangement. “Uh, thanks.” I take a few seconds to build my confidence to speak again. Y’know I-I think you’re...pretty cool.”

“That’s very nice of you to say.”

I turn to look at him. He’s keeping a suspiciously calm poker face. Like there’s something hidden behind it. His eyes are a bit strained though. Does he...not believe me?

“Well, I only say it because it’s true,” I say softly.

He turns to me slowly. The poker face slips off bit by bit, eyes widening, perfect lips falling open. Though I can’t still figure out what he’s feeling. It’s a mix between wonder and anxiety, I think.

“Simon...” he whispers.

And I wait for him to say more. Seconds stretch into minutes into eternity. I try to will my limbs to do more than just hang uselessly. To reach out and touch him, or ask him the question that’d been on my mind for two weeks, ever since we met. But anxiety infects my every muscle and nerve. So I just sit there like a statue, as does Baz, with his complicated expression. Just listening to the cars speeding outside.

Baz turns back to his flowers and the moment abruptly ends. “We should finish this up. I’ve got work to do back home.”

“Y-Yeah,” I mutter. “Good plan.” We finish the rest of the arrangements without speaking. The silence weighs on me like a ton bricks.

Christ, I wish I wasn’t such a coward.

When we’re done, I send Baz off with awkward mumbled goodbye which he reciprocates. I watch him walk away for too long. Then I close the shop and glumly walk up the stairs. It’s like there’s a cloud hanging over my head. Fuck, I had my chance and I missed it. Because I’m a total idiot.

I walk in the apartment door, still looking at my shoes.

“So, Baz huh?”

“Gah!” I jump back from my mother, standing literally four feet away from me. “Have you been waiting here for me like a creeper? Jeez, Mum.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re avoiding the question, love. So, Baz huh?”

I stare at her blankly. “That’s barely a question.”

“Ugh, do I need to spell it out for you? I thought I raised you smarter than this.”

“Hey! I-”

“Shut up, darling. Okay, to be more specific, are you and Baz together?”

I look at the floor again, kicking the carpet. “No,” I say quietly.

“But...I’m guessing you want to be.”

I start chewing at my nails, something I only do when I’m especially nervous. “...maybe.”

I feel my mother’s hand curl around mine, bringing it away from my mouth. She tilts my chin up to look at her. Those big blue eyes, even bluer than mine, instantly calm me down like always. She cups my cheek in her soft hand.

“Well, as someone who learned a lot from her horribly failed marriage, I say go for it. You obviously like him a lot. I can tell just by the way you look at him. And I think he likes you too.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right. What makes you think that?”

“Because, he looks at you the exact same way.” She pats my face once. “Don’t be an idiot, honey. Put yourself out there.”

With that, she walks away towards the kitchen. “Now should we have chicken fingers or frozen pizza for supper? It is junk food night.”

Is she right? Does Baz feel the same way? If so, why didn’t he do anything earlier? Well, I didn’t do anything either, but I was nervous. Baz wasn’t nervous. Baz gets frazzled and annoyed, but he’s too confident to be nervous. Right?

I sigh, and push my thoughts to the side for now. “Chicken fingers, please. And can we have cherry scones after?”

“Oh absolutely!” she says from behind the freezer door. “It’s not junk food night without cherry scones for dessert.”

I smile, and let myself not worry for awhile.

Okay, this is it. It only took a week and half since the yellow roses incident to muster up the courage, but I’m going to do it. I’m going to go in there, go straight up to Baz, and ask him on a proper date. Not me dropping in on his work place or vice versa. An actual, honest to god date.

I take a deep breath and walk in before I lose my nerve. I march towards the counters and-

My heart stops. But not in a good way.

Baz is leaning on the espresso machine. And he’s giggling. With Agatha. They’re smiling and laughing with their heads so close together their noses almost touch.

My stomach bottoms out. I’m frozen in place. No, this can’t be right. We’ve been hanging out, flirting even. He’s interested in me. He has to be! But...he didn’t ask me that day a week and half ago when he had the chance. Maybe this really has all been in my head.

Baz lifts his head to look at me and smiles. “Hey Simon! I-”

I turn and march out the door. How could I be such an idiot?! Of course he doesn’t like me. He was just messing with me for fun or something. In what world would such a cool, kind guy ever like me? Not this one obviously.

“Simon wait!” Baz calls, obviously chasing me. I don’t stop. “Simon, please just stop!”

I groan and finally stop walking. I turn on my heels. Baz’s brow is furrowed. “Where are you going, Simon?”

“Home,” I snap. “I assume you want some alone time with your girlfriend.” I spit the word out like venom.

Baz is obviously taken aback, stepping away slightly. His mouth jaw drops. Yeah, must be pretty shocked I figured it out. Bastard.

“Simon, wha...what are you talking about? Agatha and I-”

“Are together?! Yeah I guessed, considering you were an inch away from kissing. God, how could I have been so stupid? To think you’d ever be interested in someone like me. You-you were so nice, and you flirted with me and I thought you wanted- ugh. You’re,” I hold my forehead in my hand, “just like my Dad. He acted like he cared about me too, lied to me constantly. And you know how that ended.”

His face falls even more, and I almost feel bad. But my anger is too overwhelming.

“No, it’s not like that. I do like you-”

“As ‘just a friend’? Yeah I guessed. Like messing with people, hm? Or maybe I was just deluding myself. But I don’t want to be your friend. Fuck, I don’t want to be your anything anymore!”

“Simon, I-”

I hold up my hand. “Y’know what? I don’t want to hear it. Don’t come to the shop anymore, alright? I don’t want to see you. Ever again.”

With that, I turn and stomp away. I stomp all the way to shop, stomp up the stairs home, stomp past my mother, and finally collapse in bed. Only then, when my head hits the pillow, do I let the sadness wash over me. All the light hearted joy I’ve been feeling for weeks turns to misery. And I just...cry. I let myself cry over a stupid boy. How pathetic.

But my heart’s just been broken. I think I’m allowed to be a bit pathetic right now.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” My mother says, holding my face in her hands.

“Mum,” I groan, wiggling out of her grip. “I’m 19. I’m an adult, I can take care of myself.”

“I know, love. You’ve just been so upset lately. I can skip tea with Mitali and we can close the shop and just hang out.”

“No, go see Mitali. You’ve missed tea for two weeks. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” she sighs. “If you say so. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Of course.”

She leans forward and pecks my cheek. “I love you, my rosebud boy.”

I kiss her forehead in return. “Love you too, Mum. Now go, have fun.”

She rolls her eyes. “My teenage son is encouraging me to go out and have fun. I feel old.”

“Hate to break it to you, Mum, but you are old.”

“I’ve raised an arsehole son,” she mutters as she walks out the door.

“No shit, Mum!”

And with that, I’m alone. Alone in the shop, with the sound of the light storm out and my own thoughts. I bounce my red ball against the counter. Four days later and I’m still mulling over what happened with Baz. My stomach still aches, but with more sadness than anger now. For just a second, I thought it could actually be something. That he liked me and I liked him and we could be happy.

But that all fell apart, shattered in one moment. He tricked me. Messed with my head for kicks. I know what I saw!

...right?

I’ve been rerunning the scene in my head for days and I have to be right. Why else would they be like that? But...he said it wasn’t like that. And that he liked me. Maybe I should’ve let him explain. Maybe he still could...

Fuck, I’m weak.

I grab my rain slicker, flip the closed sign around on the door, and-

My heart stops. Again.

He’s standing right there, damp black hair hanging in his face, rain drops sliding down his grey trench. No glasses though (must have his contacts in). He’s holding a medium sized bouquet in his right hand. We stare at each other with wide eyes and slack jaws.

“Hi,” I finally say.

“Hello,” he replies. “I was just...I wanted to see you. And I’m sorry, I know you told me to stay away, but-”

“No! I...I was just going to see you too, actually.”

“Oh. Well, uh...”

The silence resumes. Baz sighs and runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back. He looks just like the day we met. He squares his shoulders and lets out a long breath.

“Tyrannus,” he says flatly.

I stare at him for an inordinately long time. “...what?”

“My full name. It’s Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I didn’t lie when I said it was stupid. And...” He takes a step forward. “I didn’t lie when I flirted with you.”

The anger bubbles up again. “Oh really? Then why were you so cozy with Agatha?”

“Because we’re old friends. The private school my mother runs? We both went to it. She was and still is one of my closest friends. And, she was the first person I came out to. As gay.”

My eyes go wider than humanly possible. I blink stupidly. His confession rattle around in my brain like a pinball machine. “Wait, what?”

He takes another step forward. “I’m gay , Simon. Completely. I’ve known it since I was 15. I’ve never so much as looked at a girl romantically. You on the other hand, I have definitely looked at.” He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair again. “I guess I wasn’t obvious enough with how much I was looking.” He laughs it off, but I can hear the nervous twinge in his voice.

“No, no no. You definitely did. I’m just, very thick. Penny reminds me of it daily. I’m sorry I over reacted. It brought back all the shit with my Dad. And I was wrong and stupid and I’m just really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he moves even closer so there’s only three feet between us. “I apologize too. I’ve spent three weeks wanting to ask you out properly but chickening out every time. I thought if I dropped enough hints you would do it. This all could have been avoided if I wasn’t such a coward. So,” he holds the flowers out, “Simon Salisbury, will you go on a date with me?”

I look more closely at the bouquet. My breath hitches. There are three kinds of flowers in there, and I know what they all mean. Purple hyacinth, “asking forgiveness.” Bittersweet, “truth”. And finally, lavender rose, “love at first sight.”

I tilt my head up to him, beaming so hard it hurts. “You remembered. About flower meanings.”

He smiles back. “Of course I remembered.” He bites his bottom lip. “So, do you have an answer?”

If I was a crueler person, I’d tease him, let him stew in uncertainty like I have been for weeks. But I’m not that cruel. Plus, I’ve been wanting to ask him out for ages, and now I have permission. Who wouldn’t take that? And really, he looks too fucking adorable to deny.

I take the bouquet from him, holding it at my side. I take his hand with my free one, purposefully lacing our fingers together. “Yes, I would like that a lot.”

Baz lets out a long breath, all the tension seeping out of his body. “Amazing. That’s certainly a weight off my shoulders”

“Mine too,” I giggle. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere that isn’t a coffee or flower shop.”

“Please. I think we’ve had our fill of both.”

I laugh and let my head fall against his shoulder. He rests his cheek on my hair. Though it’s very inconvenient, we stay like that. Any space between us feels like too much. After three weeks of worrying and dancing around it, there’s no way I’m ever letting him go ever again.

A certain flower pops into my brain. I think I’ll give it to him when we get back to the store.

Red salvia, “forever mine”.

AN: So Baz with glasses and a man bun is my aesthetic and that is the sole reason it's in this fic. Also Baz's mum is definitely Natasha not Daphne. I just needed Baz to have siblings in this fic and I think she and Malcolm would have more kids if she had lived. So I hope you liked this flower/coffee shop AU. Tomorrow, song inspired!

PS: This is the arrangement I based Baz's one on.

#carry on countdown #coc 2017 #carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #agatha wellbelove #coffee shop #flower shop #mysnowbazfic

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charmedtheselfproclaimedking · 3 years

Text

Charmed Children

Warnings: I do not own or claim to own any rights to the television show “Charmed” or the characters created within said show, this is purely fanfiction written from a devoted fan of the series. 15+ Mild to strong language, moderate to strong violence, witchcraft, sexual innuendos, and scenes of a sexual nature. F/F, F/M, M/M, Gen, Other +

Chapter 1 - The last will and testament of Phoebe Halliwell (Part 1)

Melinda Warren was a very powerful witch burned at the stake when her lover betrayed her but on the day of her death she had a premonition which reveal to her three of the most powerful witches ever to exist, these witches would later be referred to as the charmed ones, Halliwell witches who were descendants of Melinda and thanks to some magical assistance the witch even managed to meet them briefly. For three years these charmed ones: Prue, Piper and Phoebe Halliwell lived up to their legacy as the powerful charmed ones defeating foe after foe with their powers, potions, spells and unwavering bravery which ultimately led to the early demise of Prue Halliwell, the eldest Halliwell sister. However, as fate would have it that was not the end of the charmed ones as sisters Piper and Phoebe learned they had a half-sister Paige who was both witch and white lighter, together they restored the power of three and for many years defeated even more foes, saving many innocents and protecting the world time and time again but like their sister Prue and many of us who are not immortal their days were numbered. As the years passed without the charmed ones, the world got continuously more dangerous as the Underworld started to rebuild from its destruction at the hands of Piper, Phoebe and Paige but despite their absence they had not completely left the world behind with nothing, as like Melinda before them they left behind descendants, a legacy, particularly their children and now that the charmed ones were no more it was time for the children of the charmed ones to stand up and take their place, well the ones that were still standing.

PJ “Prudence Johnna” Thorne grew up in foster care where she quickly learned to have her own back because nobody else had hers, it had hardened the young girl into the cynical badass woman she became and pushed her towards a life within the force as she became a detective within the San Francisco Police Department. PJ never bothered to seek out her biological parents having already faced too much rejection in her life she did not fancy the chance of seeking out more by looking for her parents but the mystery of who they could be would be the only mystery she’d allow in her life as she joined the police force making sure solving all other mysteries was literally her job. PJ had long jet black hair with very pale skin often accompanied by a dark red lipstick and was often found wearing tight black skinny jeans matched with a black tank top and a black leather jacket, black was her favorite color of clothing for sure, she always made sure to look as closed off as she came across but little did this SFPD detective know that her next mystery would soon change everything in her life as the one mystery she never wanted solved was revealed to her. “Seems like you have an unexpected fan out there,” Gareth greeted PJ after knocking on her office door before walking into the office, to find PJ sitting behind her desk with her head in her paperwork as always. “Just when I thought you were this lone wolf it seems like you do associate with more people than just me and this police department. “I knew when they forced me to have a partner, I would live to regret it.” PJ replied to Gareth. “What are you talking about anyway?” “You are to attend the hearing of the will of Phoebe Halliwell.” Gareth informed his fellow detective. “Which solves the mystery of whether or not you have any friends.” “I have no clue who the hell Phoebe Halliwell is so you must have got it wrong.” PJ told him. “How did you hear any of this anyway?” “I may or may not have opened your mail,” Gareth revealed before pulling out an envelope from behind his back and placing it on the desk. “You can report for breaking a law if you want but I’ll just say it looked like a suspicious package.” “In which case you get the bomb squad in not invade my privacy!” PJ snapped as she picked up the envelope, tore it open and began reading the letter. “There must be some kind of mix up.” “I am sure it will all become clear once you attend the hearing of the will.” Gareth informed her, knowing exactly what was to come. Gareth Frey was a tall slender yet muscular man with a buzzcut hairstyle and could often be found wearing slim fitted shoes and being a detective was not his only job in fact it was more of a cover up than anything else to hide his true calling while getting closer to PJ. Gareth Frey was a white lighter, PJ’s white lighter, and he had been assigned to watch over her and the other children of the charmed ones.

Percy Ford may not have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth but he was certainly adopted into royalty or rather a San Francisco socialite family who believed they were royalty and as he grew up within the Ford family he began to think of himself in the same light as his adoptive family. Percy was the only child, adopted after his adoptive parents attempted many times to conceive a child of their own and so both his parents treated him like their little miracle and it was not long before he believed in the hype himself. Percy did not work because he did not have to, following his adoptive father’s death he inherited a lot of money and continued to live off that as well as enjoying shares in many businesses and finding himself constantly pampered by his adoptive mother with whom he had an extremely close bond with. Percy Ford never wondered nor cared to find out who his biological parents were, mostly because he knew how lucky he was to be adopted by such a loving and rich family who he adored just as much as he adored their fortune. Percy did not have much care in the world and was rather shallow, often loving himself more than anything else without much depth to his character until he found himself learning of the legacy he was born into. “Gareth! If I have told you once I have told you a million times be near the door at all times when the doorbell rings.” Percy complained to the butler of Ford Manor as he walked down the grand staircase towards his butler, who was also secretly his white lighter as well as a detective within the SCPD. “Who was it anyway?” “It was just the postman Mr. Ford,” Gareth informed him, while holding an envelope which looked eerily like PJ’s. “Would you like me to read it for you or just hand you it to read for yourself?” “I am perfectly capable of reading my own mail.” Percy snapped at him before snapping the envelope off the butler. “I guess your mother Mrs. Ford had another bad night.” Gareth guessed, knowing Mrs Ford had been suffering for many years following a stroke and was bed bound now. “I could look into a night nurse so you do not have to do it all yourself or perhaps the house staff could help you more.” “No, the staff already have enough to do around here and help out enough with mother.” Percy replied with a saddened sight. “Not to mention my spoiled and diva attitude especially in the mornings…I am sorry for snapping Gareth.” “It is okay Mr. Ford; I cannot begin to imagine how hard this is for you.” Gareth responded to the young socialite. “I know how much your mother means to you and how close the two of you are especially after the passing of your father.” “For the last time Gareth just call me Percy, Mr. Ford was my father.” Percy stated as he opened the envelope and began reading the letter. “This cannot be right according to this I am in the will of someone called Phoebe Halliwell…I do not know a Phoebe Halliwell.” “Perhaps she was close to your parents at some stage in her life?” Gareth suggested. “You should probably attend the hearing just to be courteous.” “You are right it is the polite thing to do I suppose.” Percy admitted to his butler. “Last time I was at a will hearing it was for my father…although I doubt this woman will be leaving anything even remotely near the quantity of my father’s fortune.” “Who knows what kind of hidden treasures will be handed over to you, it may not be a fortune but I’m sure whatever it is will have had great value to her and perhaps to you too.” Gareth answered him. “You know for someone forced to put up with my brattish self, day in and out you are a very optimistic man Gareth Frey!” Percy said, giving his butler a rare compliment. “Please do not ever change.”

Peyton Price was a beautiful, young and carefree spirit who learned she was adopted at a young age but chose not to seek her biological parents out in respect to her adoptive parents whom she still has a great relationship with. Peyton’s passion was photography however it was yet to pay any bills and so she worked at a diner nearby her apartment within San Francisco City. She did not have a lot of money, but she was hardly broke and very appreciative of all the things she had experienced in life. Peyton had always wondered who her real parents were and why she was put up for adoption but she was also a big believer in fate, believing everything happened for a reason and that mindset was going to prove highly recommended for what she was about to learn. “Hey Gareth, how are you?” Peyton greeted her neighbor Gareth, after opening her apartment door to see him stood within the lobby area of their apartment building. “I just noticed you had some mail in the mailbox and thought I’d bring it up to you since the locks are playing up again.” Gareth replied, as he handed her an envelope. “Looked important and I did not want someone running away with it.” “That is funny I was sure I just checked the mailbox before coming home from my latest shift at the diner.” Peyton answered him as she opened the envelope in front of her neighbor and began reading the letter. “That’s funny I’m supposed to attend some hearing of a will…no clue who the woman is.” “Maybe you have a secret rich aunt who has left you everything in the will.” Gareth joked with her, knowing fine well what awaiting the young aspiring photographer. “Ha! That would be a nice surprise then I could buy me own gallery and force them to put my pictures up.” Peyton laughed. “Although I guess the struggle is part of being a true artist.” “Well I hope everything goes well for you Peyton…let me know how it all turns out.” Gareth replied, pretending not to already know. “I will do, thanks again Gareth!” Peyton thanked her neighbor once more, completely unaware to the fact her neighbor was also her white lighter and the woman’s will she was going to attend the hearing of was her biological mother’s.

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venusgfs · 7 years

Text

The Dragon Tamer

summary: Dan Howell is the last dragon tamer alive and a well known mercenary to the Ten Islands, hired to kill Price Phil Lester of the Island Allister.

genre: angst

word count: 5.5k

tw: none

Dan laid on the hill, the blades of grass tickling his cheek with every light breeze that passed through the meadow. The sun shone on his skin like a warm blanket. It was the longest moment he had to himself in a while. His job was, to say the least, demanding. And it was only moments like these he was allowed to take a breath.

His peace was interrupted by a slight caw, the steady sound of wings beating, and, eventually, the sharp dig of a pair of tiny claws in his shoulder. His eyes flew open.

“Fafnir,” he grumbled. “What is it?”

Fafnir cawed again. He was a small thing, barely larger than a lizard, and his green scales glowed in the early morning sun. He was clutching a scroll of paper in his beak.

“What’s this?” Dan mused, snatching it from Fafnir’s small teeth. He unfurled the letter and skimmed the page quickly. As he read, his fingers traced the top of Fafnir’s head. His brow furrowed with every sentence on the page.

“Looks like our services are needed in Allister.” Dan stood and turned to his dragon, looking into his yellow eyes. “Wake the others.”

Fafnir growled, a low sound in the back of his throat, before he unhinged his claws from Dan’s shoulder and took off for the wooden house at the top of the hill.

Dan sighed and looked out into the green ocean, the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs of the Island Dragan, home of the last nests of the great species of dragons, and of Dan since he was very young. Dan had been raised by the dragons, learning to understand and harness the brutality of their kind, a brutality few could brave. He had learned to act, to fight, and to live as vicious as they, never knowing the gentle touch of a fellow human, never being infected by the compassion found inside the inferior race. He hunted without care, and killed without thought.

Ever since the neighboring of the other nine islands heard of Dan’s abilities, and heard he was one of the only humans left in the world that could successfully rein in the dragons, they found their uses for him. And overtime, the word spread, until all of the Ten Islands knew of Dan’s aptitude for killing, of his stone cold glare that never wavered, even when his enemies groveled at his feet, tears dripping onto the floor.

And now, Dan had been hired to kill the prince of the Island Allister by the king’s own right hand. Gareth of House Warshaw feared the young monarch would be as corrupt as his father, who was lying sick in bed, prepared to die at any moment. It was Dan’s duty to make sure that he wouldn’t get the opportunity to destroy Allister with his tyrannical rule, as his father before him did, and instead pass the grown to Gareth, who vowed to rule justly and fairly.

Dan’s assignment was clear. Phil of House Lester would need to be dead before his father croaked his final breath.

Another two dragons appeared at Dan’s side, one long and amber colored like a serpent, with stubby black wings and legs, the other an elegant dark blue, large head almost three times higher than Dan’s. Dan ledged his boot into one of her ocean scales, climbing up her flank until he was seated comfortably between the joints of her wings. Fafnir landed on the head of the amber dragon, squawking loudly. The larger beast growled in reply, quaking the ground below him.

“Apophis,” Dan reprimanded. “We don’t need another avalanche.”

Apophis snorted twin columns of smoke from his nostrils.

Dan leaned forward and patted the base of his steed’s neck. “Ready Ikuchi?”

She scraped her claws into the soft grass, leaving four deep trenched in the dirt the width of Dan’s arm.

“Then let’s ride.”

It was a short journey to the Island Allister. Dan and his dragons only needed to cross the mountainous island of Magai before touching down on the beach of Allister.

“You and Apophis take shelter under in the ocean,” Dan told Ikuchi, patting her cheek as his dragon craned her neck down so their gazes locked. Her eye was the size of Dan’s head and the color of ice. “Fafnir can come with me. I’ll whistle if I need you two.”

Ikuchi grunted, her plumed tail kicking up small storms of sand as she wandered into the sea. Apophis followed her until the tips of his claws touched the water. He snarled and bucked anxiously.

“I know, I know,” Dan told him. “But Ikuchi will keep you dry, and you can come up to land when it’s clear.”

Apophis didn’t look happy. While Ikuchi might’ve been more comfortable in the water than in her own skin, Apophis was powerless when he wasn’t dry. Dan hated hurting his beasts, but he didn’t see any other way. Two large dragons in the middle of the beach wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.

“I’ll be back soon,” Dan assured him.

Apophis still looked angry, but he followed after Ikuchi without lighting any nearby trees on fire, his serpentine body cutting cleanly through the waves. Dan turned to Fafnir on his shoulder.

“You ready?”

Fafnir replied with a quiet growl and shimmied his way into the satchel at Dan’s side. Dan stared one last time into the sea, in the direction of Dragan, before turning and hiking up the hill towards King’s Village.

Dan had been to a lot of villages in his time as a mercenary, but King’s Village was by far one of the worst. The roads were unpaved save for the main one, which cut through a line of cheap shops loitered by families that smelled like rotten fish and wore old rags. Dan had to tuck his satchel into his dragon skin coat after a horde of grubby children passed, hands fruitlessly dipping into his pockets. The stalls of the marketplace were nearly barren, the shop keepers all but begging for someone to stop and purchase their wares. It took Dan ages to find a cloth merchant with a bin half full with what Dan was looking for.

“Tunic and trousers please,” he asked, carefully opening up his satchel and avoiding Fafnir’s teeth as he searched for his coins.

The merchant dug through the cloth and folded up the clothing Dan had requested. “Ten gold pieces.”

Dan bit his tongue. He couldn’t help but feel as if the man was ripping him off. But trouble was the last thing he wanted. Dan dropped the coins into the merchant’s open palm.

“Your accent,” the merchant grumbled. “You aren’t from around here.”

“No…” Dan replied. “I’m here to visit my mother’s father. I haven’t been here in awhile.”

“It’s really nothing like it was before that dreaded king’s reign,” he mumbled, his eyes shifting back at forth. “Say, boy. That’s a nice coat. Where’d you say you were from?”

Dan’s jaw tightened. He hugged the clothes closer to his chest and bowed his head slightly, leaving before the merchant could ask another question.

By sunset Dan was with his dragons on the beach, keeping a steady eye on the opposite end in case anyone decided to walk by. His tunic and trousers were hanging from Apophis’s horn, drying in the wind after being dunked in the ocean water a few dozen times. Dan didn’t trust anything from that marketplace. He was cooking a fish Ikuchi had caught herself in the sea with a fire Apophis had created. The stars weren’t as bright here, maybe from the smoke of the village. Dan missed his home. He wanted to get off this awful island as soon as possible.

But this time he was tasked with killing a prince. He would have to be here awhile if he wanted to be successful.

Dan fell asleep curled up next to Apophis in the soft sand to the sound of the waves sifting the sand and the deep breaths of his dragons.

“Name and title?”

Dan swallowed, his arms stiffening behind his back. “Oliver of House Lennox.”

The guard’s eyes traced Dan skeptically. He was lean, but too muscular to have grown up in the slums of Allister. His skin was tanned from spending most of his times outdoors in Dagran, while the people here were pale and sickly. Even his clothing was clean and smelled like salt water instead of animal carcasses. It couldn’t have been more clear that he didn’t belong on the island.

“House Lennox?” The guard scoffed. “Never heard of them.”’

“We’re a small house on the Island Kapano. I’ve come across the Tenfold Sea to prove my worth. Sir.”

“To the prince of Island Allister?” The guard still looked skeptical. Dan gritted his teeth and knelt at his feet.

“I have never admired the leadership skills of a government more than those on Island Allister sir!” he lied enthusiastically. “I beg you to allow me to witness it up close, and serve the future of this kingdom with my life!”

“All right, all right.” The guard glared at Dan, crouched on the ground pitifully. “Stand up. I’ll escort you to the servant’s quarters.”

“Thank you sir!”

Dan stumbled to his feet, trying to remain in character, and followed as the gate opened in front of the guard, leading to a pristinely manicured lawn, complete with hedges trimmed into the shapes of lions, a fountain, and a path of cobblestones that shone like they were washed daily. It made Dan sick. If half of the money spent on the garden alone had gone to the village, it might not have smelled so ghastly.

The castle itself was much more sickly, even through the back corridors towards the servant’s quarters. It was decorated with banners all plastered with the Allister crest, a lion on its hind legs with a thorned rose clutched in its jaw. The halls could comfortably fit both Apophis and Ikuchi, the rafters high enough to support even the water dragon’s enormous height. Before he could take it all it, they were in front of the modest doorway that marked Dan’s new home. He had to bend over to make it through.

“You’ll be introduced to the prince tomorrow.” They were the guard’s last words before he slammed the door behind Dan and left him only with the echoing noise and the heavy air of imprisonment.

The next day Dan found himself kneeling again, this time in front of a very different person.

He didn’t quite know what he was expecting the prince to be like. Vain and young, presumably. He expected his inexperience to be obvious, a reason to kill him immediately to be presented to him on a silver platter. Yet Dan received none of those things. Phil of House Lester seemed almost… kind. Maybe a bit older than him, so not a young and impressionable child either.

“Leave us,” Phil commanded the guards stationed at the throne room door.

“Your Grace, is that really wise?” one guard suggested. “We know nothing of this servant.”

Phil looked back down at Dan, not finding anything inherently dangerous. “Do as I’ve commanded.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Phil waited until the guards had exited before speaking again. “You may rise.”

Dan obeyed, finally able to meet the prince’s eyes. They were a few shades away from the blue of Ikuchi’s own icy gaze.

“Are you clear on your duties to me, Oliver?”

“No, your Grace. I hadn’t been told.”

“You will attend to me in the mornings and evenings,” Phil began. “Help me dress, bathe, and groom. You will take and deliver messages. You will clean my quarters when necessary. You will taste my food before I do. You will be ready to serve me at a moment’s notice, night or day. You will be at my side constantly, save for one personal day per week of your choosing. That will be all.”

Dan swallowed. Was that all? He hadn’t prepared for the amount of work actually necessary for going undercover as a servant. He wasn’t sure where he had gotten the impression that no actual serving was going to take place.

“Yes, your Grace.”

Phil’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne, his brows dipping lower as he stared at Dan. “Your accent is unusual.”

“I’m not from here, your Grace. I’m from the Island Kapano, House of Lennox.”

“Yes. That’s what you’ve told me.” Phil relaxed, but never took his eyes of off Dan. “You’re dismissed Oliver. I expect you at my side for supper in one hour.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Dan bowed as deep as he could before he scurried out of the throne room, fists tight at his side with frustration and mind stuffed with thoughts.

That evening at supper, true to his word, Dan bit out of Phil’s steak first. It was decadent and cooked perfectly, much better than the gamey forest meat he lived off of on Dragan, and undeniably better than the rotten food in the village. Phil sat next to the king’s right hand, the very man who had commissioned Dan for this job. They didn’t dare meet each other’s eyes. The seat across from Phil was reserved for the king. It was empty.

“How is Father?” Phil asked, sawing into his steak.

“No better.”

“Is there any idea of when he will go?”

“We predict in a week or two, my Gracie.” Gareth bowed his head politely, but couldn’t mask the glint in his dark eyes.

Phil swallowed his bite and threw his napkin onto his plate. “I’m not hungry.”

His chair growled against the stone when he pushed it back, the tapping from the heels of his boots echoing through the dining hall. Dan bent over to clean his plate but was interrupted.

“Oliver! At my side!”

Dan set the plate down and glanced at Gareth before following Phil.

The prince led him up a spiral staircase and down another grand corridor. Dan could’ve lived in this castle his whole life and still not learn his way around. It was a maze of elegance, of disgustingly polished stones and brightly colored tapestry. Every sword Dan saw hung on the wall prompted the thought of how a single stone from the hilt could’ve fed the peasants for a week.

Phil collapsed on his silk blankets, spreading his arms out wide and sighing loudly. Dan waited at the threshold, uneasy.

“How am I expected to rule this island?”

It took Dan longer than it should have to figure out that Phil was talking to him. “W-with fairness and justice, your Grace.”

Phil scoffed. “I suppose that’s exactly what this place needs.”

He sat up quickly, staring daggers at Dan. “My father thinks I’ve only seen what he’s let me see. But it isn’t true. I sneak out, every night. The guards are too daft to notice me. I know what the King’s Village has become under my father. I know what the entire island has become.”

Dan bit his tongue. It wasn’t his place to speak.

“But how am I supposed to change it?” Phil continued. “My father has destroyed my home beyond recognition. Even the wisest of rulers could not reverse the damage he’s done.”

Phil glanced over towards Dan. His features softened. “I’m sorry I’m rambling. This was probably not what you signed up for.”

“I don’t mind, your Grace.” Dan found it strange how easy it was for Phil to switch from a harsh prince to someone compassionate and kind, who appeared to genuinely care about the state his father had left his island in. However Dan knew better than anyone just how deceiving appearances could be. He refused to let his guard down.

“No matter.” Phil waved his hand. “You’re dismissed, Oliver. Be with me after breakfast tomorrow morning for sword fighting.”

Dan bowed and backed out of the room. If sword fighting involved Dan himself picking up a blade, he wasn’t sure how well he would fare at that. Dan relied on his wits when he fought, choosing to use daggers he could hide in sleeves and soles, instead of a large, heavy sword that was obnoxiously impossible to use discreetly. How much easier would it be to stand behind a victim and slash their throat in the middle of a crowded marketplace, rather than to unsheath a huge blade from your hip and stab someone in the heart?

Dan was still considering how much he would prefer the dagger burning a hole in the seam of his trousers to the sword clutched nervously in his hands when he stood facing Phil in the back gardens the next morning.

Conversely, Phil looked rather comfortable with his sword, a long, elegantly crafted metal tool that reflected the sunlight harshly. The hilt was bronze and decorated with the signature thorns of Allister, which wrapped around Phil’s gloved hand as he swung the blade back and forth. The slight whoosh it made as it cut through the air made Dan wince. He was certain he would die at the hands of that blade if his true identity were to be revealed.

“You ready Oliver?” Phil had an easy grin on his face, a light bounce in his toes. Dan envied his comfort.

“Yes, your Grace.” He lifted his own sword, muscles tense in an attempt to support the heavy weight. He told himself that this was a prime opportunity to study Phil’s fighting mannerisms. Not all assassinations could be done stealthily. Sometimes a fight was necessary, and if that were the be the case with Phil, he might as well be prepared for it.

Phil lunged as soon as the words left Dan’s mouth, and he had barely enough time to step out of the way, the blade scraping across the thin armor Dan had been given. He parried as Phil went in again, aiming for his exposed left side.

“You’re left handed, huh?” Phil mused. “How unusual.”

Phil jabbed again and threw Dan off balance. The prince stepped forward, knocking Dan’s sword aside with the flat end of his own and pointing the tip right at Dan’s neck.

“Not bad, Oliver.” The grin had never left Phil’s face, but now it grew wider. “Want to try again?”

That night, Dan was about to fall asleep when there was a tapping at the window above his cot. His eyes flew open and his hand found the dagger until his pillow instinctively, but as he raised his head to peek outside he noticed it was only Fafnir, claws scraping against the glass. Dan shot his dragon a stern glance and brought his index finger to his mouth. He watched as Fafnir backed away from the window, shoulders slouching and tail dragging against the sill.

Dan sighed. He had abandoned his dragons for two days now. They missed him.

Dan glanced through the servants quarters. Everyone else was asleep, and they stayed sleeping as Dan tossed his thin blankets aside and crept across the room, the cold stone stinging his bare feet.

Phil was right when he commented on how daft the guards were. Half of them were asleep, the other half too busy laughing loudly with each other to notice Dan’s figure sneak past them.

He and Fafnir ran through the village and down the hill to the beach, where Apophis was curled up around a fire and Ikuchi’s head was sticking out of the water. The two of them perked up as they noticed Dan.

“Easy, easy,” Dan grumbled as Apophis nudged Dan’s body with his nose, knocking him into the sand. “I trust you three have been doing alright without me.

Ikuchi growled mournfully, head resting against next to Dan. He patted her cheek.

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I’ve got an important job to carry out.”

Dan stayed with his dragons for as long as he could, but it was only a couple hours later that the sky started to turn a lighter color as the sun began to rise.

He said farewell to his beasts and left them each with a wave as he made his way up the hill and back into the village, hoping he could make it in time. It turned out that it didn’t quite matter.

As he was passing the small outcropping of trees, a long blade appeared at his neck, so close Dan could see his own terrified eyes in the reflection.

“If you don’t want to be killed right now, you’ll keep quiet and walk with me back to the castle.”

Dan tried to steady his shaking breaths. He nodded slowly.

“Good.”

Phil removed the blade from Dan’s neck and sheathed it, grabbing his wrist so Dan couldn’t run or reach for his own weapons.

“You’re the dragon tamer.”

Dan remained silent, still breathing heavily from the march into Phil’s room.

“There’s no use in that, Dan of House Howell. I saw you, with those dragons. I knew that accent wasn’t Kapanan, and House Lennox?” Phil’s voice was steadily raising. “I’m a fool!”

Dan’s eyes fell on his weapons, the three daggers he had on his person that had been discarded onto the table, at least twenty paces from where Dan was standing. He could try to cross the room, but not without Phil skewering him with the sword still clutched in his hand. He could try to run, but he didn’t think the guards would be as stupid this time of day, and he couldn’t risk going against a whole castle of them with nothing but his fists for protection.

“Then I suppose that means you’re here to kill me,” Phil said. He laughed. “Killing a king before he’s even taken the throne! Your employer must be incredibly paranoid.”

Dan still didn’t reply.

“I see how you’re going to play it, then.” Phil brought his sword back up to Dan’s throat. “Do you want to stay alive, dragon tamer?”

Dan held Phil’s gaze steadily. His giant eyes were blown up to twice their usual size, and Dan could see the rings of green and brown around his irises.

“Yes.”

Phil slowly lowered his weapon until the tip hit the stone floor with a clang. Phil’s gaze fell with it, the mad prince Dan saw only a heartbeat earlier turned into someone sober and tired.

“Then help me.”

“With what?”

Dan supposed Phil’s response was what he did next, yet it left Dan with more questions than answers.

Phil’s sword fell to the ground and his hand found its way onto Dan’s cheek. Dan was about to take his wrist and flip him around when Phil connected their lips.

Unless dragon licks counted, Dan had never been kissed before. But even though it was a moody prince he had been hired to kill taking his first kiss, Dan liked it. Phil’s mouth was warm and wet, his hands strong on Dan’s face and waist. Dan heard himself sigh, the tiniest little noise in the back of his throat that he couldn’t control. The noise drew him back to reality and reminded him of what he was doing.

He pushed Phil away, sputtering and trying to bring words to his mouth. None came.

“I’m sorry.” Phil wrapped his arms around himself nervously. He suddenly looked very small. “But I need you.”

Dan didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. All he knew was that Phil would kill him if he didn’t continue… whatever this was.

He was also certain that he didn’t mind at all.

True to his word, Phil made sure that those meetings became an ordinary thing.

Nearly every night when Dan came to Phil’s room, he greeted him with his warm mouth and his steady hands and Dan was getting more and more used to it. He was even allowed to sneak out and visit his dragons, on Phil’s watch of course. The dragons never wanted to get close enough for Phil to properly meet them, so he hid in the woods near the beach as Dan comforted his beasts.

The only thing that made Dan uneasy was the uncertainty of how long this arrangement would last. And the looks Gareth kept casting him at meals, ask asking how much longer it would be until the prince was found dead in his chambers and the servant boy Oliver was nowhere to be found.

Two weeks after Dan had been caught found he and Phil in the gardens sparring again. Dan had improved with the sword to the point where he was a decent match for the prince.

“Nice try,” he quipped as Phil aimed for his left side, hitting nothing but open air as Dan slid out of the way. “Not falling for that again.”

“Not falling for what again?” Phil grinned and twisted, his sword travelling quicker than Dan’s reflexes and cutting a chink into the right side of Dan’s armor. “Petty distractions?”

“You’re an arse,” Dan growled teasingly, stepping so his right was protected.

“No need to call me names.”

Their swords met in mid air, the sunlight bouncing off the metal shining in Dan’s eyes. They parried and dodged each other’s quick jabs, ignoring the fatigue in their muscles and the layer of sweat on their skin. For a brief moment, it was just the sound of metal on metal and the shine of Phil’s eyes until the messenger approached.

“What is so important as to interrupt my sparring session?” Phil demanded. The messenger knelt.

“Forgive me, your Grace. But it’s your father. He has passed.”

Phil’s sword fell to the ground.

Hours later, Dan waited, fisting the blankets on Phil’s bed anxiously. Finally, the door swung open and Phil entered, brow furrowed and movements stiff.

“You’re the king,” Dan said blandly.

Phil swallowed. “Yes. The king.”

Dan brought his hand up to Phil’s forearm. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk.”

Phil pushed Dan against his bed, connecting their mouths. But this time was different from the gentle, hidden kisses they normally shared. This was aggressive and charged, and it felt like Phil was consuming every bit of Dan’s being with his hot mouth and his body pinning him to the mattress.

And Dan found himself slipping and slipping until he finally let go and gave himself over to Phil.

Hours later they laid in Phil’s bed, bodies intertwined. Phil was twisting one of Dan’s curls around his finger, face flushed, eyelids heavy. Dan’s head rested on Phil’s chest. He could hear the young king’s heartbeat echoing in his ribcage.

“You need to leave,” Phil whispered.

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t understand, Dan. Gareth wants me to marry the princess of Magai.”

Dan sat up. “What?”

“She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Phil…” Dan muttered. Phil’s eyes closed.

“You need to go. Please. To make it easier.”

Dan’s heart was torn. He couldn’t leave Phil. He couldn’t just abandon those sad, tired eyes and that cheerful smile, those lips and those hands. But he knew all of those would be gone when the princess arrived. He would be forced to be Oliver forever, nothing but the memory of the taste of Phil’s mouth to satisfy him as he watched his king from afar. It would be easier to return to Dragan. Live with his dragons in isolation from the world and from the inexplicable heart wrenching feeling in Dan’s chest that appeared whenever Phil traced Dan’s cheek with his fingers.

Phil was right. It was easier to leave now and forget him.

The last picture Dan had of Phil was him tangled in his silk blankets, arms tucked into his body like he was holding any last memory of Dan close to his chest.

Dan’s dragons weren’t expecting him back so soon. They were all asleep in the air bubble Ikuchi had made under the water, and Dan had to dive down into the sea and tug on her tail to wake them. Once they had resurfaced, Dan mounted Ikuchi without a word. Fafnir curled up on his shoulder and fell asleep again. As if he could tell something was wrong, Apophis nudged Dan’s shoe with his snout comfortingly.

“Let’s go,” Dan mumbled, his voice drowned by the sound of the waves. But Ikuchi heard him anyway. With a beat of her giant wings, they were in the air.

Back in Dragan, Dan shut himself in his house, much to the dismay of his dragons. He collapsed on his bed, the coarse blankets nowhere near as comfortable as Phil’s, and closed his eyes.

He floated in the purgatory between awake and asleep for what felt like days. To exhausted to get up, mind racing too quickly to relax. He had never felt like this before. Any emotion other than happiness or sadness or anger was out of his range of comprehension until now. He didn’t have a word for what felt like his heart cracking down the middle.

His dragons helped him.

Fafnir eventually got him out of bed when the rumbling of Dan’s stomach became too much for the little dragon. Ikuchi brought a bundle of fish to his doorstep, Apophis cooked them over the open flame in his mouth. Fafnir gathered bites of fish in his small claws and bring them to Dan’s open mouth, and molded the cliff rocks with his manipulation over the earth into bowls to give Dan freshwater.

The dragons eventually guilted Dan into standing up and stumbling out of his hut, the bright sun blinding him as it had that day in the back garden of the castle, when it glimmered off the clashing swords. Dan looked at the ground.

He brought down a rabbit in the woods with his dagger. It was a small rabbit, and he stabbed it in the side which meant a lot of meat had gone to waste, but it was an improvement.

And he kept improving for almost a month before he woke up one morning to Apophis growling at his door and Fafnir tugging on his curls.

Dan wandered outside and nearly fainted at the sight before him.

Ikuchi was standing opposite another human, her fangs larger than Dan elongated and her open mouth a cavern of gleaming white teeth. Her claws were dug into the sand and the ice that she had created beneath her, her wings stretched, giving her the appearance of being ten times larger than her already gargantuan size. It was a sight even Dan was afraid of, yet the human opposite to her merely held his sword higher, the defiant look unwavering from his features.

His features…

Dan recognized those features.

“Ikuchi, down!” Dan commanded, sprinting across the sand to his dragon. She looked at Dan as if he were mad, but let her wings settle at her sides.

Dan slowed as he approached the dragon and the man, squinting as if he wasn’t certain of what he was seeing. “You’re alive.”

Phil sheathed his sword and brushed the hair from his eyes. “You’re surprised.”

“I figured after I left my employer would…”

“Hire someone else?” Phil cracked a smile. “No. Gareth was too cowardly to do such a thing. I had evaded death once, he didn’t want to press his chances.”

“You know who it was?”

“Of course I did. Do you take me for a fool, Dan?” The name felt so good to hear coming from Phil’s lips. “Gareth never liked me or my father. He was always waiting for his turn to strike.”

“What are you doing here?”

Phil took a step closer to Dan. He was too stricken to move away. “I got sick of my wife. I got sick of ruling. I left Gareth take the throne. He was right, he will make a better ruler. He could do more for Allister than I ever could.”

“You told me to leave.”

“I know. And I regret it. I was just scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know,” Phil replied, exasperated. “Of my feelings and ruling over Allister and I didn’t know anything except that I was falling in love with someone who was hired to kill me.”

Love.

Dan had never been in love before. He never thought he was capable of experiencing so human an emotion.

But he knew he was.

Dan stepped towards Phil, going steadily faster with every step until he was tackling the runaway king into the sand, connecting their lips and finally feeling Phil’s hands back on his waist. He had been starving before this moment but now he was full, he was alive.

Phil was with him, here to stay, and Dan was full and in love and alive.

#dkjsdfhakfh this is so long #my longest fic on here actually??#but it was also unbelievably fun to write and i hope it was worth the wait lmao #honestly i want to write an entire twenty book fantasy series out of this but i wouldn't have the patience #hopefully a new fic will be coming next week #i'm v excited about that one too ;)#phanfiction #phanfic #phan au #phan angst #franfic

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hub-pub-bub · 5 years

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Earlier this month, the author and screenwriter Gareth Roberts announced that his story was being removed from a forthcoming Doctor Who anthology. Having been shown Roberts’s past tweets about transgender people, BBC Books said that his views “conflict with our values as a publisher”. At least one of the book’s other contributors, Susie Day, had promised to withdraw from the project if Roberts were included. “I raised my concerns, and said if he was in, I was out,” Day said.

A few days before, at the Hay festival, the Irish author John Boyne had described a campaign against his own book, My Brother’s Name Is Jessica, about a boy and his trans sister. He was insulted on Twitter for his appearance and his sexuality. (Like Roberts, he is gay but not trans.) Some critics proposed a boycott of Boyne’s novel, which was not withdrawn. Others made veiled threats to his safety. “I don’t feel it’s my job as a reader or a writer to tell anyone what they can or can’t write,” Boyne said. “We are supposed to use our imaginations, to put ourselves into the minds and the bodies of others.”

The campaigns against Roberts and Boyne are not new, or isolated. Since March, I have been sending discreet messages to authors of young adult fiction. I approached 24 people, in several countries, all writing in English. In total, 15 authors replied, of whom 11 agreed to talk to me, either by email or on the phone. Two subsequently withdrew, in one case following professional advice. Two have received death threats and five would only talk if I concealed their identity. This is not what normally happens when you ask writers for an interview.

Amélie Zhao withdrew her forthcoming fantasy novel about slavery.

Another of Zhao’s critics was Kosoko Jackson, whose own debut novel A Place for Wolves, about a romance between two teenage boys during the Kosovo war, was scheduled for release in March. Jackson is black and gay, and a professional sensitivity reader, which means he reads books before publication and offers advice on how they handle matters of identity. Yet on 22 February, he too was accused of insensitivity, for allegedly minimising the suffering of Albanian Muslims. “I’ve never been so disgusted in my life,” said the first review to make this point, on the reading community website Goodreads.com. On 25 February, comments below the review began to discuss sending an open letter to Jackson’s publisher. On 28 February, he posted a note apologising to “those who I hurt with my words” and withdrew the book. In April, the British YA author Zoe Marriott was widely accused of cultural appropriation for writing a Chinese-inspired fantasy novel called The Hand, the Eye and the Heart.

These are just the latest battles in a war that seems to be escalating over who should control the way that people from marginalised communities appear in YA fiction. In August 2016, the Mexican-American author EE Charlton-Trujillo’s verse novel When We Was Fierce was delayed after several bloggers criticised its attempt to capture the voice of a black teenager. It has still not been published, and is not mentioned on Charlton-Trujillo’s website. In the months that followed, three speculative fiction novels, The Black Witch by Laurie Forest, American Heart by Laura Moriarty and The Continent by Keira Drake, attracted protests for their allegedly racist content. Forest published regardless, and with great success, despite a campaign of one-star reviews and emails to her publisher. Moriarty published, too, although Kirkus magazine, which had defended The Black Witch, downgraded and revised its review of American Heart, because it said the article “fell short of meeting our standards for clarity and sensitivity”. Drake, however, was convinced by her critics, 455 of whom signed a petition demanding that The Continent, “a racist garbage fire” according to one fellow author, be delayed to allow “additional editorial focus”. A substantially revised version appeared in March 2018.

The YA community is a much tighter group than the scattered loners who write adult fiction. “Young adult” means books suitable for readers aged 12 to 18, and the grownups who write them exhibit en masse the same idealism and energy, the defiance and conformity, and the love of social media for which teenagers are famous. Spend time weaving through the Twitter feeds of YA bloggers and authors and you’ll find a supportive atmosphere for struggling writers, along with a widespread belief that the novels they produce should be good in all ways, moral and artistic. In particular, every author I’ve spoken to agrees that marginalised people must be represented in books more accurately and often than in the past. It is something they have more reason to care about than most, since young people on average are more liberal and less white than the general population in both the US and the UK. It is also natural to write more cautiously when about half the people reading will be children.

The YA category is still a teenager itself, with origins in the Harry Potter years at the beginning of the century. Its first big identity discussion took place in 2012, when the film of The Hunger Games surprised some loyal but inattentive readers with the news that two of the main characters were black. In May 2014, a new fan convention in New York called BookCon announced an all-male, all-white panel for its Blockbuster Reads event, and We Need Diverse Booksgrew out of the protests that followed. In September 2015, Corinne Duyvis, a Dutch YA author, proposed the Twitter label #ownvoices to promote books in which “the protagonist and author share a marginalised identity”. It has since become a kind of quality assurance mark for many campaigners, since it means that a book will help diversify both the characters and authors in YA fiction, while guaranteeing that the author knows what life with the character’s identity is like. In autumn 2015, Kirkus began a policy of noting the skin colour of major characters in children’s and YA books, and assigning own-voices reviewers to them. Kirkus also started to provide what it called “sensitivity training” to its reviewers. The employment of sensitivity readers became routine in US YA publishing at around the same time.

John Boyne faced criticism of his book My Brother’s Name Is Jessica. Photograph: Murdo Macleod/The Guardian

Many of the battles around YA books display the worst features of what is sometimes called “cancel culture”. Tweets condemning anyone who even reads an accused book have been shared widely. I have heard about publishers cancelling or altering books, and asking authors to issue apologies, not because either of them believed they ought to apologise, but because they feared the consequences if they didn’t. Some authors feel that it is risky even to talk in public about this subject. “It’s potentially really serious,” says someone I’ll call Alex. “You could get absolutely mobbed.” So I can’t use your real name? “I would be too nervous to say that with my name to it.” None of the big three UK publishing groups, Penguin Random House, HarperCollins or Hachette, was available for comment.

Another author I will call Chris is white, queer and disabled. Chris has generally found the YA community friendly and supportive during a career spanning several books, but something changed when they announced plans for a novel about a character from another culture. Later, Chris would discover that an angry post about the book had appeared anonymously on Tumblr, directing others to their website. At the time, Chris only knew that their blog and email were being flooded with up to 100 abusive messages a day.

“These ranged from people telling me that … I was a sick pervert for tainting [their] story with my corrupt, westernised ideas,” Chris says, “to people saying [I] had no right to appropriate [their] experiences for [my] own benefit and I must immediately stop work. Some emails and comments consisted of just four-letter words.” There were threats of beatings and sexual assault. One message made the threat of a group “coming to my house in the middle of the night, and breaking in so that they could give me a lethal overdose”. Some messages came through Goodreads, although Chris does not know if they were linked to the main YA community. The “vast majority”, and all of the most violent threats, “came from an ideology that I would identify as left”, Chris says, and every message made the same demand. “Stop writing this. Don’t write this. You can’t write this. You’re not allowed … ”

Chris now realises that it would have been best to call the police. In fact, they told no one. The messages continued for about a year, during which time Chris stopped sleeping, found it hard to write, and became increasingly depressed. At last, from a mixture of financial necessity and the feeling that the punishment was already happening, Chris finished the book, which has since been published. The original Tumblr post remains online.

For publishers, supporting a book accused of racism could seriously harm their reputation, yet the price of withdrawing one could be enormous. “It is a topic that is discussed on a daily basis in private groups on Facebook,” says an author I will call Paris, who has twice been nominated for the Carnegie medal. “There is a huge demand for books to be more sensitive to minority groups, but there is also a concern that this censorship, pre-publication, is the wrong way to go about it.” In Paris’s case, after months of debate, an entire series was withdrawn by the publisher. “The books were literally going to print that morning,” Paris remembers. “They ended up paying for the entire series, so I got all my advances and it never got published … It was mind-boggling. Just bizarre.”

Does Paris know why they pulled it? “Because the publisher was scared of Twitter. They admitted this, because there are things like a racist character in the book. They were worried that people would say, ‘This has got a racist character. The author must be racist.’” The publisher was certain that the books were fine, Paris says, but felt it could not risk an accusation of racism. “They are paranoid, and [the] sales [department] were second-guessing everything. They went through [the books] and went, ‘That could be misconstrued as offensive. That could be offensive. That could be offensive …’”

The idea that sensitivity is too subjective to understand, let alone enforce, frustrates many of those who campaign for it in the YA community. Rather than being a righteous mob trying to silence other opinions, they regard themselves as simple fact-checkers, providing a service that is welcomed by authors. “I see sensitivity reads as a form of peer review,” says one, who asked not to be identified. “There are some things as a white, cis, straight person that I may not notice or even consider. I recall a huge moment for me was reading about black ballerinas dyeing their pointe shoes to match their skin. It’s such a small thing, but I never had to think about that when I did ballet; the shoes always matched my skin.”

Heidi Heilig runs a YA Facebook group with more than 1,700 members. She says that the community is much more moderate and reasonable than many outsiders have been led to believe. “There is a sect of people who say, ‘Any criticism is censorship,’” she says. “There are people who say, ‘You can only write a character from a certain race if you are of that certain race.’ But a lot of the conversation falls somewhere in the middle.”

‘The way that things have played out this year doesn’t sit comfortably for me’ author Mary Watson.

Far from being afraid of criticism, Heilig says that many writers in her group are eager for feedback on identity matters, and many writers from marginalised groups are happy to provide it without accusing anyone of anything. None of this, of course, is seen by the outside world. “We care about our peers,” Heilig says. “We don’t want to drag people. That is the worst and last option. The first thing to do is try to help.” Meanwhile, many mildly racist books are still published without controversy, she believes, and some of the controversy we see has an important but hidden private context. “I don’t think that the fears you’re talking about are borne out by reality. People make this out to be so hard, but honestly I don’t think it’s that difficult. What we’re looking for is good writing, so you either know what the tropes are and subvert them, or break the tropes entirely. I don’t understand why there’s such a push to do the same old thing.”

Ellen Oh has been reluctant to talk publicly since her tweets about Blood Heir, for which she received death threats against herself and her family. She reported the worst cases to the police, and in the end deleted her social media accounts. Criticism is healthy, Oh believes, but she feels that outsiders have made things needlessly unpleasant. “I wish we did not have these mob reactions,” she says. “The YA community used to be a safe place where bloggers and writers could communicate and share book news. It’s become so different … There are extremes on both sides, and it is hard to find the truth among all the vitriol.”

Mary Watson, a mixed-race author who grew up under apartheid in South Africa and now lives in Ireland, agrees. “I think there have been many careless and even damaging representations of people of colour in books,” she says, “and as a reader I’ve experienced it throughout my life. Sometimes it’s just eye-rolling, sometimes it makes you want to shut the book in exasperation, so I understand that there’s a lot of anger about how people are represented. I absolutely get that. But the way that things have played out this year doesn’t sit comfortably for me … I absolutely agree that sloppy representation should be spoken out against, but I think this should happen in ways that encourage constructive dialogue rather than cancellation.”

Sophia Bennett, a British author, welcomes many of the changes in YA over the past five years, but sees a clear line that critics should not cross. “One thing that saddens me about the way that the argument is polarised on social media is how many people comment negatively, particularly, on books that they haven’t read,” she says. “I think that is an unhealthy attitude for a readership to have. They don’t want to make up their own minds based on their own experience.”

There are other reasons, beyond the page, why the YA community might be upset right now. According to research by Melanie Ramdarshan Bold at University College London, after a period of rapid growth in the early 2000s, the number of YA books being published in the UK peaked in 2012, since when it has declined rapidly. In 2016, the latest year in the study, just 167 different YA authors were published in the UK, less than half the number of 2012 and fewer than in any year since 2006, when the dataset begins. Overall, sales of young adult fiction fell in the US last year, and in February the Bookseller revealed a very steep drop in UK sales, which are now at their lowest point for 11 years. There are many theories to explain this, including the idea that YA has become overloaded with social justice themes – although this was hardly a problem for The Hate U Give, a huge blockbuster by Angie Thomas, which concerns the shooting of a black teenager by a white police officer.

The YA wars may die out in the months ahead, as people grow weary of the arguments. Or the conflict may appear to die out, if timid publishers purge anything that they can imagine being questioned. The wars may even spread. There have been two pre‑publication campaigns against adult novels on the basis of identity so far this year. A petition demanded the withdrawal of The Cape Doctor by EJ Levy because of the way it handles the gender of its central character. In May, They Called Me Wyatt was cancelled after its author Natasha Tynes tweeted a photograph of a black subway worker eating, against the rules, on a Washington DC train. Tynes was widely accused of racism. At the time of writing, on Goodreads, her book has received 1,970 one-star reviews. She is now suing her publisher.

It may not be realistic to hope for restraint on social media, but it is clearly what’s required. If authors are only human and make mistakes that need to be corrected, then critics are also human, and must be ready to admit some mistakes of their own. In January, Kosoko Jackson was an authority on negative tropes in fiction. In February, he was a perpetrator, as unreliable as everybody else. Heilig herself praised A Place for Wolves on Goodreads, then later apologised for being “flippant and disrespectful”. Still, correction hurts, so it is always tempting to dismiss the “social justice warriors” or the “arrogant racists” on the other side. Ironically, it can even happen when writers argue over how to avoid stereotypes. Nothing is more normal than being wrong.

#young adult #publishing #books #cancel culture #sensitivity

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