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atlabeth · 10 months

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come on back to me - nikolai lantsov

summary: five times you save nikolai and one time he saves you.

a/n: if you've seen my thoughts as i read through siege and storm and ruin and rising then you know that i am deeply in love with nikolai lantsov and since ive finally finished the trilogy i finally feel qualified to write about him lmao. i actually don’t think i’ve written a 5+1 which is crazy so here you go. i wrote this in like 2 days in a spurt of inspiration and im absolutely in love with it, so i hope you all are too!!

title from you’re the one by greta van fleet

wc: 7.3k

warning(s): fem!reader, canon typical violence, siege and storm & ruin and rising book spoilers (i have not watched the show), medical inaccuracies, nikolai's volcra era, hurt/comfort and a happy ending (as usual)

Os Alta

It all happened rather quickly.

One moment, you were in the infirmary mending a poor soldier’s broken arm. The next, screams were erupting everywhere.

You and the soldier locked eyes, and you did a final bit of healing on his arm before you nodded at each other and darted off.

The soldier grabbed his gun and went further into the palace, no doubt to find the royal family, and you adjusted the collar of your kefta before you ran out into the fray.

Nichevo’ya had surrounded everything, attacking anyone they could find, and their shadowy bodies were like a void’s blight on the land. You knew the sight would be forever burned into your mind.

You knew the Darkling was going to march on Os Alta, that he would have to do it directly to use his shadow soldiers, but this was so much earlier, so much worse than you’d expected. Enforcements were meant to come from Poliznaya. You guessed that was off the table.

You were fine at fighting—alright with a pistol and better with a dagger—but you were a Healer. You spent more time dealing with the aftermaths of battles, more skilled at setting broken bones and mending bullet wounds than inflicting them.

Times like these were the ones when you normally questioned your decision to not hone your abilities into a Heartrender, but now you would at least be a dead man either way. Nichevo’ya didn’t exactly have hearts to stop and organs to manipulate.

You had to get to the other Grisha. You had to make sure the Sun Summoner made it through this attack, even if it meant you wouldn’t.

You broke into a sprint, trying your best to ignore the crippled and broken bodies in the carnage. Your instincts tugged against you, but you knew there was nothing to be done. If you stopped to help a dead man, you would soon join them.

You nearly battered into a group of people from your speed and lack of attention, and you reeled to the side seconds before a head-on collision. When you looked up, drawing in ragged breaths in the one second of rest you’d gotten, your eyes widened.

You were face to face with the royal family. The King, the Queen, and Nikolai Lantsov. The absence was glaring.

“Grisha,” Nikolai breathed, and he grabbed onto your shoulders like a madman as his fingers ran over the embroidery. He might as well have been one, the way wildfire flickered in his eyes. “You’re a Healer? One of Alina’s?”

You nodded rapidly. “Are you—”

“I’m getting them to safety on the Kingfisher,” he cut off, “and she wants me to get that old woman as well.”

“Baghra—?”

“You’re a Healer?” the King interrupted harshly. Your heart stuttered—you’d never been directly addressed by the King, but you supposed circumstances like these called for different standards.

“Yes,” you nodded. “Are you hurt?”

“My wife,” he said, and your attention turned to the Queen. Genya’s absence had taken a toll on her, and the shards of glass sticking out of her side weren’t doing her pallid frame any favors.

“Madraya,” Nikolai whispered, his eyes wide, “I didn’t even notice.”

“Alexander—” her voice was ragged, her entire appearance pallid— “we’ve much bigger concerns.”

“Nonsense.” The King’s gaze bore into you. “We have time. Heal her.”

You screwed your eyes shut, your hands closing into fists for a moment before both opened and you nodded. “Keep an eye out, moi tsarevich,” you huffed, and you moved to the Queen’s side. Nikolai’s head perked up for a moment at your words, but it disappeared just as quickly as he adjusted his grip on his pistol.

“Of course,” he said wryly. “Not that I don’t trust your work, and not that I don’t trust my abilities, but it would be grand if you could do this quickly.”

“Working as fast as I can,” you muttered, ignoring the noises the Queen made as you pulled the shards of glass out with little care. Your mentors would be rolling in their graves if they could see you.

“Vasily is dead, by the way,” Nikolai said, attention focused on the nichevo’ya all around. Thankfully, you’d run into each other in a spot relatively hidden from view. Hopefully it extended to shadow creatures. “I know you were wondering.”

Your hands faltered for a moment, but it was hardly noticeable as you continued to work. He wasn’t wrong. “I’m so sorry.”

The Queen choked back a sob, and the King’s face betrayed the slightest bit of emotion.

“An awful way to go,” Nikolai muttered, more to himself than anything. “But fitting that he brought about his own end.”

His parents said nothing to your surprise, but you stood up from your knees and nodded at the King and Queen. “She’s healed enough. No internal bleeding, at least.”

“Healed enough?” the King repeated. “That is not—”

“It’s the best we can hope for,” Nikolai interrupted sharply. “We’ve already wasted too much time out here.”

He then nodded, grasping your hands with fierce desperation. “The crown thanks you, darling.” You’d never seen him like this—you’d never seen him fear anything. The Darkling and his creations were a good start. “I thank you, truly.”

“Just doing my duty,” you assured, and you pulled a small container out of the pocket of your kefta, leftover from your work in the infirmary before it all went to hell, and pressed it into his hand. “She should be alright, but I’ve been slightly rushed. Rub this salve on her wounds when you’re out of danger just to be sure.”

Nikolai nodded again, slipping it into his own pocket. “Keep our Sun Summoner safe,” he said. “Or else this’ll have all been for nothing.”

You nodded. “With my life.”

Nikolai’s eyes met yours, and something unsaid passed between you. Then his hands slipped off of yours, and he continued to herd his parents away from the chaos. You muttered a quick prayer to any Saints that would listen for their safety, and then you head off on your own way.

2. The Pelican

You thought either the bones in your hands or the wood was going to crack with how tight you were holding onto the side of the ship. Your heart was still hammering away in your chest—the adrenaline from the battle and Nikolai Lantsov’s sudden appearance and being shot at a thousand different times by a thousand different militiamen still had you quite shaken.

You knew the sort of chaos you were in for when you made the decision to travel with Alina Starkov rather than stay in the White Cathedral, but you think you hated being in the air like this even more than you hated being trapped underground with those zealots.

Someone called your name, and you turned to see Adrik a while away with wide eyes. You huffed a sigh as you reluctantly let go and hastened your pace to catch up with him. If he was sent to fetch you, then someone needed healing, and you couldn’t exactly hold off on the one thing you were good at.

Adrik led you over to a corner of the Pelican where a large portion of your group of Grisha were gathered. Tamar was kneeling next to whoever was injured, one hand splayed above their chest, and you took a deep breath as you forced calmness to wash over your mind.

“What are we dealing with?” you asked Tamar, but it was clear enough when he spoke up.

“I’m telling you, it’s fine,” he insisted. “Just a flesh wound.”

“He was shot,” Tamar said dryly, “and he refuses to accept its severity.”

“So we meet again,” you said placidly.

Nikolai seemed to perk up when he saw you, any prior frustration absent from his face as he grinned at you and said your name. “If you’re the Healer here, then I guess I’m not so fine.”

“Am I ever going to be around you when you’re doing important princely things,” you said as you crouched on the other side of him, Tamar continuing to keep his heart rate steady, “or only when you’re injured?”

“This is a very important princely thing,” Nikolai said. “I’m showing my soon to be subjects that I’m just like them.”

“You were shot and you thought you were fine?” You let out a loose sigh and shook your head—it wasn’t worth getting into it. “Keep it steady, Tamar.”

She nodded, and you reached out to begin unbuttoning his outer coat. He wouldn’t stop shifting around, and it made it infinitely harder.

“Will you sit still?” you snapped.

“I am,” Nikolai said.

“You are not,” you asserted, and you undid the final button on his coat after a struggle, “and you are making this much more difficult.”

“My apologies,” he said. “Usually women that are taking off my clothes aren’t this angry with me.”

You scowled, only making his smile grow.

“You do it yourself if you want to be like that,” you said, letting your hands fall back to your side. “I’m sure the rest of your soldiers will listen to a Healer.”

“Ah, but none of them bravely threw themselves into danger for you,” Nikolai remarked. “I’m sure that earns me a few points.”

“Points that you’ve immediately lost by being this difficult with me.” You crossed your arms. “And you did not throw yourself into danger for me—you were in the battle and you got shot.”

“We came to save you all, and you are a part of it,” Nikolai said. “I’d say I definitely threw myself into danger for you.”

“You’re impossible.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Will you not even allow a dying man some honor?”

“You are not dying,” you said, “but you will be if you continue talking. Now take off your clothes and stop being so difficult so I can fix this up before you do die.”

He tutted as he shed his jacket and worked on the rest of his clothing. Princes were apparently fond of multiple layers. “For a Healer, your bedside manner is remarkably poor.”

“Don’t worry,” Nadia piped in, “she’s always been like this.”

“I have very fond memories of you healing my broken ribs,” Alina said dryly.

“All of you are still alive,” you said tartly with a glance back at your fellow Grisha, “aren’t you?”

“I think you made me wish I wasn’t,” Harshaw mused.

You scowled again and Nikolai laughed. “That bodes very well for me, considering how much I seem to irritate you.”

“You’re going to be fine,” you grumbled. When you turned back to him, he’d gotten down to his undershirt and unbuttoned it. Blood had spread across the white fabric, but apart from being shot, the wound wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. It’d had the chance to fester for a bit, but with Tamar’s aid it hopefully wouldn’t be a problem.

You took a deep breath as you placed your hands on his chest—lucky as always, you could sense the bullet missed all his major organs—but Nikolai grimaced before you could even do anything.

“Are you alright?”

“Your hands are very cold,” he said and you just shook your head.

“How no one has wrung you by the neck is beyond me.”

“Many have tried.” He flashed that smile again. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t add your name to the list.”

You ignored him, taking another deep breath before you closed your eyes. You felt your power within you, the tug you’d grown accustomed to over the years, and you focused it into a single point.

You slowly worked on healing Nikolai, making sure you went from the inside out to stop any internal bleeding before you carefully wedged the bullet out with your knife. Surprisingly, he managed to keep his mouth shut for the most part. He watched you the entire time though, wholly unyielding, and it was unnerving.

Nikolai covered up his pain remarkably well, but you still caught the slightest grimace when you practically stuck a dagger inside him.

“Do you always try to injure your patients more when you’re healing them?” he asked innocently.

“You typically don’t make fun of the person fixing you up,” you said, and you held up the knife, “or the one holding the blade.”

“Surely you could’ve used David to get it out,” Zoya offered lazily. “Better than practically stabbing the King of Ravka.”

“I’m not the king,” Nikolai said. “Not yet, at least.”

“And I’m not stabbing him.” You held up the bullet with your other hand, then let it fall to the floor. “I just didn’t feel like digging around inside him.”

Nikolai picked up the bullet, and you frowned in question. He just shrugged. “To hold onto the fond memories of this battle and the kindest, prettiest Healer I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Someone snickered behind you, and you turned to see all of them just standing around—Zoya, Harshaw with Oncat perched on his shoulder, Adrik ignoring his sister to watch, even Alina and Mal were still there. At least Tamar had enough sense to stay quiet while she helped you.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” you snapped. “It’s hard to focus with you all watching me.”

Alina blinked, seeming to come back to her senses. You almost didn’t blame her—she had so much on her shoulders, it made sense to just want to stand and stare for a minute.

“Right,” she nodded, and she gestured at Zoya and the Squaller siblings as she started walking across the ship, “Adrik, Nadia, I need you all over…”

Alina's words trailed off as she got farther away, and the small crowd dissipated to find duties to carry out without their Sun Summoner to indulge their whims.

“Thank you for your help, Tamar,” you mumbled. “I can take it from here.”

She nodded and went off to join the others—the controlled state Nikolai had been in dissolved as she let go of the hold she had on his heart, and the slight daze in his eye went away.

“Are you always this mean?” Nikolai asked. You turned back to find him with that same unshakable confidence, same lazy smile even in the face of it all. It was no wonder noble and commoner girls alike tripped over themselves when he returned to Ravka.

It was no wonder Alina fell for his charms despite the tracker by her side—he always knew the right thing to say to make you feel like everything would be okay, and in the midst of Ravka’s endless war, that was a valuable quality indeed.

“I save it for irritating princes,” you remarked. With a final flourish, his wound was sewed up, and Nikolai raised his eyebrows as he touched the newly healed skin.

There was another slight wince, but he still smiled up at you. “Excellent job.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” you said.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Grisha handiwork,” Nikolai said as he pulled himself up from the side of the ship. “Especially the healing kind.”

“It would do you good not to get used to it,” you said. “You may not be king yet, but Zoya is right. I’d appreciate it if you tried to stay out of my infirmary.”

“Do you not enjoy my company?” he asked.

“I don’t enjoy bringing Ravka’s only heir back from the brink after every battle,” you corrected. “You’ve got a lot more weight on your shoulders now, moi tsarevich.”

His eyebrows furrowed slightly at your Ravkan. “Say that again.”

You frowned, wondering if you’d heard him correctly. Nikolai continued staring at you, so you sighed. “Moi tsarevich?”

He laughed, and that only soured your mood further. “What are you laughing about?”

“I recognized it back during the attack but I didn’t fully think about it,” he said. “It comes out the most with your R’s. You’re not Ravkan, are you?”

You paused at his sudden subject change. “You were focusing on my accent when everyone was dying around us?”

“Answer the question.”

Your frown deepened. “I am in most senses of the word.”

Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Kerch.”

Your lips twitched. “Yes, but I don’t—”

“You still haven’t lost the accent somehow,” he continued. “At least, in how you speak certain Ravkan words. Is it Ketterdam?”

“Don’t you have better things to do than quiz your Healer on her childhood?”

“Perhaps,” Nikolai said, eyes twinkling, “but if you’re really my Healer, as you said yourself, I’m surely allowed to ask as many questions as my heart desires.”

“Your heart desires no more,” you said wryly. “I have other injured to attend to. Call if you find yourself actively dying.”

To his credit, he didn’t try to fight it. Just offered that same smile that weakened knees from the Kaelish to the Shu. “I’ll be sure to ring before I’m dead and buried.”

“Put your clothes back on before you do,” you said.

“Ah, but isn’t this your reward for putting up with the irritating prince?” Nikolai asked with a slight gesture at his chest. “I’d imagine you’d want to keep an eye on your handiwork.”

That sparked a rare smile of your own, and you bowed your head. “Moi tsarevich,” you said before you walked off.

You felt Nikolai’s eyes on you even as you approached an injured First Army soldier, and after the first few preliminary questions you couldn’t help but look back.

When you did, he was gone.

3. Monastery of Sankt Demyan

You sat on the Spinning Wheel, off to the corner so you wouldn’t be disturbing anyone, staring at your hands as you tried to ignore the thousands of things bumping around in your mind. You’d been on the run with the Sun Summoner and a smattering of other Grisha for longer than you would have liked, but you had to accept that this was what life would be like until the Darkling was either defeated or destroyed you all.

It was a damning sort of fate, knowing what awaited you unless the impossible was done. At least it would be quick if the nichevo’ya tore you apart.

You grimaced. That was one thought that would do you no good—if you’d made it this far, from Os Alta under the Darkling’s control to Os Alta under Lantsov control to the White Cathedral and now to Fjerda of all places, what was one more piece of the puzzle?

A very big piece of the puzzle, of course, and there was still the intrinsic distrust that some soldiers—and even Alina at moments, flickers of it you could see in her eyes against her will—had towards you. You, like the rest of the Grisha here that hailed from the Second Army, served the Darkling until you’d switched sides. You wanted nothing more than to see the Darkling to his grave, for Ravka to be restored and for all of this to be over.

But you had switched sides in the first place, and you knew enough from the looks of those soldiers—they still believed that if you could betray the Darkling, you could always still betray the Sun Summoner if given enough cause.

You didn’t try to dissuade their views through words; it wouldn’t do any good. You just hoped the long hours you spent holed up in the infirmary healing the injured would. You missed Maxim if only so you wouldn’t have to do it all alone.

“Vlachka for your thoughts?”

You looked up, surprised to see Nikolai Lantsov of all people. You hadn’t held a true conversation with him since you healed him after his bullet wound. He’d been busy with princely things like banishing his parents and saving Genya’s livelihood.

You were thankful for that, at least. She’d suffered too much at the hands of the Darkling and the King.

“You’d need a lot more than that,” you said.

He smiled. “I’ve got quite a bit. Have you seen this place?”

You chuckled and shrugged. “Just thinking. About our next move, about the Darkling, about what will be after this.”

“You certainly aren’t the only one,” Nikolai said. “Lately it seems to be all anyone can think about.”

“I’m sure you’d much rather have them thinking of you,” you said wryly.

“Oh, there’s plenty of that going on as well.” Nikolai smiled. “An even balance, I’d say.”

You chuckled again. “What brings you here, Nikolai?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to get to know my Healer.”

You huffed a sigh and looked away. “Why do you call me that?”

He was awfully good at feigning innocence. “Call you what?”

“My Healer,” you repeated. “Your Healer. I don’t understand it.”

“I like the sound of it,” he said. “I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

You felt your cheeks heat and you felt his eyes on you. “It’s not that. It’s just—”

“Because I can,” he continued. “Would you prefer lapushka? Milaya? Perhaps babya.”

You scowled as you turned back to him, and you hit him lightly on the shoulder. “You should stick to the seas and the throne, moi tsarevich. Comedy is not your strong suit.”

“I like it when you call me that,” he mused. “I like your accent, your voice.” He sat down next to you, mildly unexpected, and you hoped you did better at hiding your surprise than it felt. “There’s something soothing about it.”

“I am from Ketterdam,” you said after a moment. “You guessed right. Born and raised. When my abilities started showing, my parents put me on a ship to Ravka with a map, some vlachki, and the clothes on my back. I made my way to the Little Palace, pleaded my case to the Darkling, and I haven’t seen them since.”

Nikolai was silent, and you fully turned to look at him. “You wanted to know more about me. That’s who I am. A girl from Ketterdam in over her head.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Nikolai said. “You’re a woman from Ketterdam in over your head.”

You huffed a laugh, and Nikolai’s expression softened a bit. “Why did they send you away? If that’s alright to ask, of course.”

You shrugged. “Being a young girl in the Barrel is bad enough. If anyone figured out I was Grisha, I would either be dead in the streets, indentured before I could blink, or worse.”

“They thought it would be safer in Ravka,” he guessed. “In the Second Army.”

You nodded. “They couldn’t have known any of this would happen,” you said dryly.

“Do you miss your parents?” he asked.

“Every day,” you said quietly. “We sent letters when we could, but it was never enough. And those stopped after Alina left the Little Palace, obviously.”

You didn’t need to recount the months of the Darkling’s madness as he searched for his Sun Summoner. Nikolai might have been Sturmhond at the time, but you didn’t doubt that he had contacts in the Little Palace. You didn’t exactly want to remember it either.

“How about this?” Nikolai adjusted his position so he could look right at you, those smart hazel eyes enough to get lost in. You forced yourself not to. “On the slim chance that we make it through these next few weeks, when the dust has settled and I’m officially King, I’ll charter a ship for you back to Ketterdam.”

Your head whirled back to look at him, eyes widening. There was no sign in his eyes of a false promise, only that soft smile, charming as ever. You had the sudden, misplaced urge to wind your fingers into those blonde curls and kiss him.

“You’d do that for me?”

He nodded. “Of course. Only the best for my Healer, right?”

That got a laugh out of you, but the heat rose to your cheeks all the same. “That would be incredible, Nikolai. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

He looked—gazed— at you for a touch longer than usual before he spoke again.

“There’s going to be a meteor shower later tonight,” Nikolai said. “One of my crew figured it out—he’s very fond of the sky, and he told me it would be… quite the sight.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. Was he—

“I’d like to watch it with you,” Nikolai continued. “Of course, I have to put on a display with Alina, but after that,” he looked over at you, hazel eyes gleaming, “I’d like to spend the night with you.”

It took a moment for your brain to fully process his words. “Moi tsarevich, are… you asking me on a— a date?”

“Just Nikolai, please,” he said with a grin. “And yes, I am.”

It seemed so trivial in the scheme of things. You were leading an impossible battle against the Darkling, and as a traitor to his throne, you would end up dead or worse if he caught you. The near entirety of the Second Army was dead, friends you’d grown up and honed your power alongside with ripped apart by nichevo’ya. Your chances for victory relied on the firebird, and no one knew a damn thing about it.

It was trivial. It was frankly ridiculous, for the prince— the King of Ravka—to be asking you on a date, especially when it was imperative for him to present a certain image with Alina.

But for all the triviality and ridiculousness and idiocy, you found that you’d never wanted to accept something so badly.

So you did. You nodded, smiled, brighter than usual. Nikolai seemed to have that effect on you.

“I’d love to.”

“Wonderful.” Somehow, impossibly, his grin grew bigger. Nikolai took your hand and pressed a delicate kiss to it before he stood back up—you’d never been so thankful for his confidence, because you found yourself at a loss for words. “I’ll see you tonight, darling. Try not to get into too much trouble without me.”

You nodded again, and you knew you looked like a dazed idiot. The better half of a decade spent training as a Grisha and all it took was a kiss to your hand for your brain to stop working. You really had been at war for far too long.

Nikolai could tell every thought—or lack thereof—in your head by the overly pleased expression he wore as he walked away, and your entire face burned as you bit back your smile.

He knew exactly what he did to you.

4. The Bittern

Sergei sold you out.

That son of bitch had betrayed you all to the Darkling the first chance he got, and he’d been rewarded with a quicker death than any of you would get.

You’d been left fighting for your lives against the Darkling’s oprichniki, Grisha, and nichevo’ya alike, and as usual, you were hopelessly outnumbered. You knelt over Adrik as Zoya, Nadia, Harshaw, and David kept the crowd of enemies back, doing your damnedest to keep him from bleeding out from his nichevo’ya bite.

His arm hung at a bizarre angle, and you didn’t know how you would tell him and his sister you didn’t think you could save it. You were sure Genya’s whispered words were the only thing keeping him even slightly calm.

By the time the Bittern was in the air, precarious but afloat, you were about ready to collapse. It had all been too damn much, with the Darkling and Baghra and Nevsky, and now the poor schoolboy lying beneath you with an arm you couldn’t save.

“He’ll be okay,” you murmured to nobody but yourself, wiping beads of sweat from your forehead as you laid against the side of the ship. As okay as any boy who lost his arm to a shadow monster and went through what he just did.

Thank the Saints for Tolya keeping both Adrik’s and your heart steady during that ordeal, because you were sure your panic would have won over.

Everyone in your motley crew was injured in some way or another, and you were the only Healer. Soon you were back on your feet, pushing the horrors of the night out of your mind as you mended lacerations and fixed up bullet wounds.

Every so often, your eyes would drift over to Adrik. You’d healed him the best you could, but it wasn’t enough.

And then your mind went to Nikolai.

Nikolai.

In the chaos of the battle and the subsequent healing haze, you hadn’t even realized he wasn’t with your group. The Pelican had taken off before you all got to the Bittern, but Nikolai wouldn’t have left Alina on her own after all he’d done to ensure her safety.

You were almost too scared to ask, but you did anyway.

“Alina,” you asked, slightly surprised at the sound of your voice in the silence of the night, “where’s Nikolai?”

Her eyes were unfocused, arms crossed around her midsection for warmth despite the light that glowed beneath her skin. “The Darkling,” she murmured.

“Wh— what did he do to him?” you continued. “What in the Saints’ name happened to him, Alina?”

“He ruined him,” she whispered. “He turned him into a monster.” The look on Alina’s face broke you into even smaller pieces. “He turned him into a monster all because Nikolai dared to stand against him. He’s gone.”

Your grip tightened on the side of the ship as she explained what she had to watch, and your knees threatened to buckle.

Maybe it was stupid, but you hadn’t even realized you cared this much about the prince. The king, you had to keep reminding yourself. But the thought of him hurt—a hurt that you couldn’t heal—it tore your heart to shreds.

Only last night you were laying on a blanket next to him, staring up at the meteor shower through the glass dome. He’d never looked more beautiful than he did then, with the streaks of light illuminating his handsome features and those hazel eyes you’d grown to appreciate.

Few words had passed between the two of you, but once Nikolai had taken your hand in his, neither of you let go for the remainder of the night. That urge to kiss him came back in spades, but you never acted on it.

Saints, you wished you had.

“Do you think you can heal him?” Your voice sounded oddly foreign, but you didn’t even feel like you were in your body. Like you were watching it all happen from above, because this couldn’t have been happening. Not to Nikolai— to your Nikolai.

You were his Healer, and he was your Nikolai. That was how it was supposed to be.

“I don’t know,” Alina admitted, her tone strained. “My light might be able to help, but… but whenever I’ve used it against the nichevo’ya, against the volcra, I— it kills them.”

Her voice broke on the last few words, and you wanted to hug her. Alina didn’t love him, you knew that much, but anyone could tell she’d grown close to Nikolai over the months. She was hurting just as much as you.

You didn’t. You found that you couldn’t do much but stare into the night sky.

He was all alone. Forced into a monster, and now he was all alone.

It felt like ages before the Bittern finally landed, everyone’s teeth stained rust-orange and bones run deep with exhaustion. Everyone was still alive when you woke up the next morning, and after another check-up on Adrik, you went off into the woods under the guise of searching for kindling.

Really, you needed some time to yourself. After what had happened—Sergei’s betrayal, losing even more Grisha when you had little to start with, Baghra’s sacrifice, Adrik and his arm, and— and Nikolai—

It was too much. It was just too damn much.

You’d never gotten close like this to anyone before, never moved further than some useless flirtations and a few stolen kisses with various Grisha when you were bored back at the Little Palace, and when you finally did, with the damned future King of Ravka, this is what happened.

Guilt tore away at you as you plodded through the woods, and you let the tears you’d been holding back all night fall. You wished you’d been there for him. You wished you’d kissed him. You wished you were strong enough to take the Darkling down on your own for what he’d done.

The hairs stood up on the back of your neck, and you heard the rustling of branches. You whirled around to the source of the sound, taking a few steps to peer through the trees, and that was when you saw it.

Your eyes widened and your heart cracked all at once.

“Nikolai,” you whispered.

You’d have recognized him anywhere. Despite the shadowy veins splintering across his chest, the wings furled behind his back, claws and fangs in place of fingers and teeth—he was still your Nikolai. His blonde curls remained, his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, even his clever eyes—even if they were black instead of hazel.

The smear of blood around his mouth was a sharp contrast to it all. You wondered what—or who—had become his unlucky victim when he could no longer control his hunger.

Nikolai didn’t move as you stepped closer. His dark gaze was unreadable and you wanted to sob for what the Darkling had done to him.

“It’s me.” You continued to speak softly as you moved closer, saying your name in hopes of even a spark of recognition. “Your Healer.”

His eyes followed your movements, his gaze falling down to your hands. He pointed at them with a clawed talon.

You held them up. “My hands?”

You realized the blood around his mouth wasn’t the only bit of it on his body as your eyes trailed across his bare chest. There were cuts all across his arms and chest, most small but some deeper. He pointed at a thin scar near his abdomen, the only sign of the bullet wound you’d stitched up.

He wanted you to heal him. He knew who you were.

This time, a small sob escaped you, and your hand flew up almost on instinct to cover it. You brushed the tears brimming in your eyes as you moved closer to him, and you gently placed your hand on his arm. You felt his limb stiffen for a moment before they relaxed, and you couldn’t help your small smile. Your Nikolai was still there.

The thin cut vanished as you healed it, and you continued to do the same for the myriad of other injuries on his body. You felt his gaze on you the entire time, and some part of it was comforting. Nikolai was still there—his humanity was still there. This was the least you could do to make him feel the part.

Once you’d healed up the last of his wounds, you felt the glow of Grisha power inside of you. Nikolai grabbed onto your hand the moment you’d finished, and you looked up into his dark eyes as your fingers clasped around his talons.

“We’ll figure this out, Nikolai,” you whispered. “I promise.”

The corner of his lips curled up ever so slightly, the barest sign of the old smile you’d grown to love.

And then he let go of your hand, and he shot up into the air. It took only seconds for him to disappear, but your gaze remained stuck in place.

All you could think of was Nikolai’s dark eyes and the shattered shadows beneath his skin, the feel of his taloned hand in yours.

You would find a way to bring him back. You knew that much.

5. The Shadow Fold

“For Saint’s sake— catch him, Zoya!”

“You screeching at me isn’t helping,” she snarled, her hands held out above her as she summoned wind to break Nikolai’s fall.

It was almost laughable, how Alina ended it all with a bit of stabbing. First Mal, then the Darkling—now Soldat Sol and oprichniki alike were glowing like human lamps around the Fold. The nichevo’ya dissolved with the Darkling’s power, the same thing that created Nikolai’s monster—you screamed in general when you first saw him falling, and then you screamed at Zoya. It was a credit to her growth that she didn’t slap you first.

Thankfully, the updraft did its job, and he only landed in the sand at concerning speeds rather than very concerning.

You ran for him without thinking, not even feeling the jolt in your ankles as you lept from the skiff onto the sands. You no longer had to fear the Fold—the various Sun Soldiers that had gotten Alina’s powers had done away with the remainder in no time—and even if you did, you would brave a thousand volcra for Nikolai.

He looked so small, so vulnerable laying there in the sand, only clad in torn pants and a myriad of bruises. The last of the shadows receded when you finally reached him, and you didn’t try to stop the tears as they flowed freely down your cheeks.

“Nikolai,” you whispered, falling to your knees in the sand next to him, “Nikolai, can you hear me?”

You cradled his head in your hands, tears splattering in the sand around you, and then his eyes opened.

His beautiful hazel eyes opened and looked right at you, his lips tugging into a smirk as he said your name.

“Would you say this is an important princely thing?” His voice was husky, damaged from whatever dark thing that had taken a hold of him, but the usual lilt was there. “Or just another injury?”

You broke into full on sobs, unabashedly and unashamed as you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a hug. You felt his arms around you as well, and he rubbed circles on your back.

“I had time to think,” Nikolai murmured, “and I think I’ll settle on lapushka.”

Darling.

You couldn’t help but laugh, and you moved away from him just so you could look at him, gaze at him, never forget his beautiful features.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I knew I would be,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I had you looking out for me.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice watery. “I can’t keep crying in front of you.”

“I think you’ve more than earned it, lapushka.”

You laughed again as you shook your head. “How do you feel? Can you still move all your limbs?”

Nikolai took his hand in yours, fingers intertwining with yours. His gaze didn’t move from you. “Limbs are fine.”

You let your smile shine unabashed as you squeezed his hand, thankful for the lack of talons. “Can you sit up?”

Nikolai visibly winced at the effort, but he managed with your help. “My chest hurts quite a bit.”

“You’ve definitely broken some ribs,” you murmured, “but it’s nothing I can’t fix up.”

“There’s nothing you can’t fix,” Nikolai said.

“Careful with all the praise. I might get used to it.”

“Good.”

You glanced over to see Tolya and Zoya moving across the sand towards you and you looked back at Nikolai.

“We’re going to get you back on the skiff, Nikolai,” you said. “I’ll get you healed up and then we’ll get you some clothes. Alright?”

“I told you,” Nikolai said, “this is your reward for putting up with the irritating prince.”

“That was for the prince,” you said, running a hand through his blonde curls to untangle them. “My reward for putting up with irritating kings is to make sure they’re clothed and healed.”

His smile shone brighter than anything Alina could conjure up.

The Darkling’s Skiff

You ended up below deck with Nikolai, Tolya, an unconscious Alina and Mal, and the Darkling’s body. It normally wouldn’t have been a cheery atmosphere, but you were just thankful to be alive after all you’d done. Thankful that Nikolai was alive and himself and that the Darkling was dead.

A First Army uniform was folded next to Nikolai’s makeshift cot where you sat next to him, and Tolya’s companionable silence was appreciated as he stayed by Alina and Mal to ensure they stayed alive.

“You broke a few ribs in your fall,” you murmured, your hands placed on his chest, “but overall, I’d say you made out pretty well.”

“Yes,” Nikolai said wryly, looking at his hands. Faint black lines ran across each of his fingers, where claws had torn through his skin. Though the other shadowy marks had faded, these appeared to be permanent. “Pretty well.”

“You know what I mean, Nikolai.” You moved your hand over his ribs and focused your power—by the slight grimace on his face, the itch that came along with Grisha healing, you knew they were mending back together. “You’re still alive. You’re you again. That means everything.”

“And your hands are still freakishly cold,” he mused. You smiled.

A moment passed before he spoke again.

“You know,” Nikolai said, and you felt his eyes on you again, “I remember everything. Everything that I did when I was that… that thing.”

Your throat bobbed, but you nodded, encouraging him on.

“I went to you,” he said, “and… you helped me. You weren’t afraid—you understood what I meant, and you healed me.”

“Of course I did,” you said softly. A smile tugged at your lips. “I am your Healer, after all.”

Nikolai placed his hand over one of yours, and your power wavered for a moment as your heart stuttered.

“One of your ribs is still broken, Nikolai,” you said. “I have to—”

“I love you,” he interrupted. Your eyes snapped to him, and you thought you misheard him.

“What?”

“I love you,” he repeated, as if it came as easily to him as breathing. “Forgive me for the lack of ballads and sonnets on how to express it—I plan to remedy that as soon as we’re back in Os Alta. But I love you, and it’s the one thing I’m sure of at this moment.”

You continued to stare at him, as if you’d suddenly forgotten how to speak. Nikolai was no Corporalnik, but you were sure he could hear how loudly your heart was beating.

“It’s alright if you don’t feel the same,” Nikolai said, “or if you’re not ready. I’m a very patient man.”

It was like your limbs had suddenly regained the ability to move, because something clicked in your mind. You took his face in your hands and you kissed him with a brazen fierceness you didn’t even know you had.

For a man with two bruised ribs and one broken one, he kissed you back with the same intensity, if not more. You poured all your fear, all your anxiety, all your worries about him into the kiss, reveling in the warmth of his lips and his hands and—

Tolya cleared his throat. “We’re nearly out of the Fold.”

You pulled away as quickly as it had started, Nikolai looking very pleased with himself as you fixed the collar of your kefta and looked over at him with eyes that were surely more pupil than iris.

“Thank you, Tolya,” you said, and you cleared your throat as well. Good of him to ignore the two of you. Embarrassing of you to nearly forget about your surroundings when you looked at Nikolai.

“Yes,” Nikolai said, mirth in his voice, “thank you, Tolya.”

You rolled your eyes as you turned back to him, your lips still burning from his kiss, and you settled your hands back on Nikolai’s chest.

“No more interruptions,” you said. “I’ve got to get you healed and dressed before we’re off the sand.”

His eyes twinkled. “Whatever you say, lapushka.”

You had no idea what was next. The Sun Summoner died on the Fold, the Darkling’s reign of terror was finally over, and Nikolai was to be King. You didn’t know where you would fit in, though you were sure he would find a place.

But you loved Nikolai, and by the Saints, Nikolai loved you.

And for now, that was more than enough.

#nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov x you #nikolai lantsov x y/n #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov fic #nikolai lantsov fluff #nikolai lantsov angst #nikolai lantsov the love of my life #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone fic #grishaverse x reader #sadie writes

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secretly-of-course · 2 years

Text

there's so many pro-shippers in the toh fandom i hate it here 🤢🤢🤢

#if you ship eda with any of the kids or any of the blight siblings with each other do me a favor and block me right now #disgusting

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wilbursprincess · 2 months

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Harvey fingering reader in the office? Maybe while Tim and blight are fighting again?

(I have a new obsession)

-✨

“Shhhh, Darling, Don’t Let Them Hear Us”

Sorrybur x Female Reader

Warnings: Semi-public, fingering

Combined your two Sorrybur asks for my own sake, ✨anon! The brainrot we’ve all been getting from these Sorry Boys videos, oh my. And all the people in my Discord going feral for the tie? You’re among obsessed friends, ✨anon.

Fic below cut!

“I’m going to get lunch,” Blight says loftily, shooting Tim a look. “Since I’ve been getting more sales, I deserve a longer break.”

Harvey just snorts, watching as Tim scowls and goes back to typing. “I don’t know why they didn’t accept the job of stapling,” he comments, shooting me a shy smile over the lid of his coffee cup.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the office, I’d started dating Harvey. We’d been keeping it quiet from everyone else, especially Blight, who wouldn’t hesitate to find a loophole in the office rules to break us up. Harvey was cute, funny, and genuinely one of the sweetest guys I’d dated, and we were planning to take our lunch break after everyone else to plan something for tonight.

“Hey, Tim?” Harvey asks. “We’re figuring out something here, it shouldn’t take long, but we need it to be quiet. I’ll give you 5 bucks for the vending machine if you take lunch now?”

Tim sighs. “10 bucks?”

“Deal,” Harvey replies, tossing some crinkled bills at Tim. “Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Whatever,” Tim grunts, pocketing the bills. “Maybe I’ll go make fun of Blight while he’s eating.”

The door into the break room shuts. Phil’s gone out with Ranthony for lunch, on the excuse that corporate’s paying, meaning Harvey and I are all alone.

“You’re welcome,” he says, eyes crinkling into a smile. “I didn’t want to wait to spend time with you.”

I blush a little, eyes darting to make sure the break room door is still shut before pecking him on the cheek. “Well, I’m flattered.”

He’d stayed over at my house last night, which wasn’t something I’d normally do this soon into a relationship. To be fair, it was an accident, and we hadn’t even had sex. I’d given him a handjob over his pants, and we both fell asleep while cuddling. Harvey had even apologized the next morning for falling asleep before he could repay me, but I told him I didn’t mind.

“I still feel bad for not returning the favor last night,” he admits, squeezing my hand. “I still want to.”

“Well, we can make plans for tonight-“

He shakes his head. “Now?”

“Now?”

“There’s nobody around, and it’s kind of hot to have to keep it a secret,” Harvey says, smirking. “And you are wearing a skirt.”

“If I drag my chair next to yours, it’ll look like we’re working on this alleged project,” I offer, heat pulsing between my thighs. “What do you say?”

Harvey looks over the moon. “Oh, fuck yes,”

We slide our chairs into position, making sure everything’s hidden under the desk. The raised voices of Blight and Tim seep through the break room door, and we both giggle.

“Now that’s a mood killer,” Harvey comments, making me laugh even harder. “Luckily, it’ll keep them busy.”

His fingers brush over the front of my panties, and I shiver.

“You’re sensitive, huh?“ His voice is barely a whisper in my ear.

I nod slightly, letting out a minuscule groan as he strokes my clit through the fabric. He has incredibly talented fingers, long ones at that, and it’s not long before I’m shaky, sweaty, and my panties are soaked.

Just as his fingers slip inside me, the break room door snaps open, both Blight and Tim storming out, clearly furious with each other.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper in Harvey’s ear, and he nods, pumping his fingers in and out of me, coughing to hide the noise.

“Harvey! He put my stapler in Jello!” Blight whines, staring at Tim who’s looking innocent. “Tell him to stop it!”

He circles his fingers around my most sensitive spot, and I have to pick up his coffee to hide my moan.

Snorting, Harvey shakes his head. “Blight, man, take it up with Tim, not me. I’m busy.”

“It doesn’t look like your busy,” he pouts. “Looks like you’re trying to chat her up.”

I hold up the report I was working on a few hours earlier. “Is this considered ‘chatting up’, Blight?”

Tim snorts. “Yea, Blight, you’re just saying that because you’re jealous Harvey gets bitches-“

“Tim! Language!” Blight snaps, and the two of them start yelling at each other again.

Through the yelling, Harvey’s fingers are sending me floating on cloud nine, and it’s impossible not to let at least something slip. I pretend to peer over his shoulder at his computer, letting out a whine in his ear.

“I know, baby, I know,” he replies, speeding up his fingers. “Shhh, darling, don’t let them hear us.”

I bite my tongue and swallow down a groan, hips shifting to ride on his very adept fingers. Middle and index inside me, thumb on my clit, and a few seconds later, I shudder and soak his fingers.

“Good girl,” he breathes in my ear, moving his hand to his mouth and making sure nobody’s watching before he licks it clean. “I’d like to do this again with my cock, not my fingers, if you’re free after work?”

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bill-the-dog-for-the-check · 2 months

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I can't understand how people say with a straight face that 'antizionism' isn't antisemitism in 99% of cases. Seriously. I can only think of two circumstances in which it isn't antisemitic.

You're an anarchist calling for the dissolution of all nation-states, including Israel and Palestine. That's not antisemitic. Extreme, and naive and stupid, yeah, but not antisemitic.

You're a frum Jew like Satmar, who believes Israel is religiously premature but not something which should be destroyed immediately. This position wouldn't even really be antizionism, though, more non-Zionism.

If neither of the above applies to you, and you advocate for the destruction of the Jewish state, you're an antisemite, full stop. Seriously. If you disagree with Israel's actions, that's one thing. I certainly don't agree with everything in Israel's past or present.

But it's obscene to argue it's somehow so evil, such a blight on the world, that nothing short of its complete and immediate dissolution is justified. Especially because antizionists never argue in favor of the dissolution of other states with even worse human rights records--how could Israel seriously warrant destruction but not North Korea? Eritrea? Russia? Palestine, for that matter?

The fact is, Israel is the only modern-nation state with a whole-ass transnational movement dedicated to it's complete and wholesale destruction. Even in the case of other nation-states which have their right to exist questioned or denied, like Taiwan, Ukraine, Kosovo, or Somaliland, to call for the destruction of these states is generally viewed as racist and beyond the pale.

Well, maybe not for Somaliland. 'Anti colonialist' leftists who so passionately fight for Palestine miraculously don't care when the political issue in question is outside of the West, or doesn't involve Jews.

But I digress. The point of this post is, when they hold up 'Antizionism is not antisemitism!' as a shield to automatically absolve themselves of any antisemitism accusations before repeating blood libel, it's just not true. Antizionism IS antisemitism. Calling for the destruction of Poland is anti-Polish. The destruction of Mexico, anti-Mexican.

But calling for the destruction of Israel? Cute, trendy and not antisemitic at all, you Zionist pig! :D

#jewish #jumblr #judaism #israel #zionism #antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #anti zionisim #pro israel #I don't think I can properly articulate how done with these leftist antisemites I am #Speaking as a former leftist #these 'antizionists' have made a Zionist left-of-center Jew out of me

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reverphic · 26 days

Text

♡⠀⠀syn. a wounded blade returns home, and of course like a kindhearted individual you are, you treated his wounds. ♡��⠀cw. semi fluff, not proofread, 1.3k words, fem reader ( no prns mentioned ) maybe ooc. a continuation / sequel to the archfiend

the odor of antiseptic wafts thickly through the air, bandages are securely coiled alongside blade, he winces slightly at the sting of the antibacterial ointment poured over the open gash in his arm. a fresh bruise was planted on his forearm, vivid purple swelling proudly.

“i keep telling you to stop stumbling into danger, i’ll be the one responsible afterwards”

blade doesn’t respond, only a miniscule twitch on his brow is perceived. you glanced upwards, descrying your knight’s displeased expression, a tinge of guilt qualms inside your core.

“but those imbeciles are targeting you, how can i let that type of situation slide?” he says.

blade asserts the word imbeciles with every enmity one would have harbored for their worst enemy. you pause abruptly, emitting a sigh. blade is the embodiment of an obsessive lover, for sure, and you do not have the right to substitute that outcome. he is not your lover, naturally, but you are doubtful if blade perceives it that way too.

you knew that blade is head over heels for you, but you have no capability to reciprocate his love, saying that you are impotent in such feelings. he ceased to believe, however, and continues to believe that one day redamancy will eventually present itself.

excluding the pester, you are thankful that he came home safely, although a few scars and a severe wound are intended, at least your soldier is back.

but his abiding adoration with manslaughter — you are the one at fault. if it weren't for him enshrouding his true identity, you would've ended up in the hands of the guards authorities. you have maimed that soldier with vengeance, concocting a blight that costs his unalloyed soul. your madness birthed a demented warrior, that's what you discern at least.

“i will kindly force you once again to stay safe during unwanted combat, understand?”

ironic it was for you to say the word kindly, for it was humiliatingly apparent that you were crossed that blade was injured. it is not a form of romantic love whatsoever, merely a form of that you care regarding his physical condition.

“every combat costs at least a scar, otherwise it doesn’t have the right to be called a combat” he says, crimson eyes pierce through yours.

you declined to respond, however. blade knew you noticed his words, and you were lucid enough to empathize with his desire to convey them. to him, you are fragile, akin to a subdued rain.

he knew you were only honest when the night was hushed; there is a poem latched onto the walls of your throat, and nights like these, sincerity crawls from your flesh, like a scourge, a miasma. if blade is by your side, you never dither to let the viciousness of your words slither down your lips, because he understands you are mourning, mourning what could have been, what will not be, and what you can’t save, thus far you go on hoping.

today was unusual, your lips quiver and are ajar, yet no words seem to leave.

“i don’t want your pity, blade” you upbraided, tethering his arm with another veneer of bandage.

you never wanted to scar blade further, because you were the one who scarred him first.

blade winces, “and why do you say that?”

…how you still, sometimes crave understanding.

rage is something you've learnt to wear. however, blade's anguish folds your spine and resides behind your ribs. you are taken aback by his presence. you’re here? the question remains as a lump on your throat. and now that you think about it, you've never been kind to blade either.

how did he get so close that you have to dissect him out from under your skin?

recollection is a deathbed. remembering is a grave. the recollection of him is like a scab that you keep scratching till it sears. a burn, a keepsake, or something to grasp at that returns the favor.

you refuse to be plagued by anything less.

how have you turned brittle love into such devastation? so much greed? you insisted you didn’t love him, and you never will, yet a sun-sized ache pulsates deep within the bowels of your palpitating heart. the sight of him injured, drenched in mortal blood, in spite of your lusterless eyes deceiving you to neglect his situation, something shifts your perception to extend your arm to embrace his suffering.

terrible, terrible person assumes that tyranny and love are interchangeable.

your heart knew no name more ferociously than his. a passage that burns under your tongue.

you shift from the bedsheets, a packet of bandages still in hand as your heart is burdened by uncertainty. the malice in your tongue will forever be an obscenity, hence why you never spoke truthfully.

“my work is done here, do you crave anything?” you ask as you feign insouciance.

“[name]”

blade’s baritone voice reverberates across the vacant room, where he is seated on the insalubrious bed, tousled and soiled. something fervent exudes down in that icy tone he has. you shiver in fear, a grasp suddenly latches onto your wrist.

“do you need something?” a response slips past your lips.

blade slides his arm as it rings around your waist, fingers gradually lacing with yours. with hesitance and a hitched breath, you stepped forward only for your stomach to be pressed against his broad chest, earning a gasp.

fingertips run over the temples of your forehead, moderate enough to spare you from pain. a steady tenderness soothes you, irises swelled tenfold. the burden surges.

“you’re warm,” he says, his distinctive icy tone slowly thawing.

“why do you worry so much?” you shift back to steer clear of his proximity.

“...”

blade scowls, a crease forming on his eyebrow. your avoidance of his touch riles him, he just misses you, can he not? even if he lends a helping hand, you avoid him regardless. he avows that he has known you well for decades, but the censures hitherto left unsaid leaves him reconsidering that if he sincerely does.

so he hoists you up onto his lap, the facet of his thumb dight your cheek. reluctantly, his face inches closer to you, foreheads swept against each other.

“you have a fever, i’m telling you”

“i don’t.”

“your body temperature is rising, and you look pale”

“...i can take care of myself”

“i doubt that”

“should i repeat myself again?”

blade’s scowl deepens, an obvious expression of worry is omnipresent, which you can’t neglect so easily.

“stop looking at me like that with your pity in your eyes” you exhort with crass inflection. “just… tell me what should i do to make you… feel better, instead of you taking care of me”

amusement laces his grandeur, the shimmer in his crimson eyes vacillates; you admit that the countenance he is wearing right now is hilarious.

“well," he begins with a hum, reaching his hand to the contours of your defined jawline. “kiss me, and i’ll be alright.”

he exchanges a reticent smile, his lips chiseled upward in a way that makes both men and women sigh dreamily.

you heaved a sigh in defeat, acceding. merely for the sake of saving yourself from the headache; otherwise, he would keep pestering you until you gave him a response. he may be pushy when he wants to.

your fingers dug in blade’s underjaw, half-lidded eyes stare into the chasmic depths of his visage, slowly slinking closer.

…ah, this feels strange

warmth burgeoned in blade's chest, flames aflame as you drew in closer, lips brushing contact prudently for the first time. the lingering stench of your fragrance, the sweet, fragrant aroma of your hair, left him lightheaded, as butterflies waltzed in his stomach. but warmth encapsulated him as he slumped into the kiss, your lips unfathomably soft against his.

being able to breathe isn’t supposed to be that hard, especially if you are deep inside a passionate kiss. you shouldn’t comply with blade’s offer, but oh but the insurmountable worth of devotion beckoning inside a kiss that felt loveless.

#hsr x reader #x reader #honkai star rail #blade hsr #blade x you #blade x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #yj⠀﹐⠀‹𝟹

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

Text

Unpinned Wings.

Yan Scaramouche x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes and unhealthy relationships. Word count: 2.6k.

“Is there anything bothering you, Nahida?”

It’s definitely peculiar, being on a first-name basis with an Archon. Not so much the act itself, but rather, how naturally it rolls off your tongue. If anything, it’d make more sense if you struggled to acquaint yourself with her. Many of those in the higher echelons of Sumeru’s governance struggled to set aside their reverence and look her in the eye, despite her insistence such formalities were unnecessary.

Yet for some reason, you didn’t find it difficult to refer to her by her chosen name. Or to speak your mind in her presence.

Perhaps, after all your brushes with the divine, high strangeness has become your new normal.

“I wouldn’t describe it as ‘bothering’, but…” she trails off, her usually confident voice sounding hesitant, “I have been wanting to ask you something.”

You surmised as much. If you’re completely honest, you have a solid guess of what she wants to know. Anyone who had a basic idea of your situation would be brimming with similar curiosity. There are times you even question yourself. In those moments, you arrive at answers that branch off widely, yet ultimately belong to the same tree.

Huh. Nahida’s penchant for using analogies must be rubbing off on you.

“I’m not easily offended. You can ask away,” you reassure. Your word choice is intentional — communicating your foreknowledge of her question’s sensitive nature before it’s been posed. You have full confidence that she picks up on this. “I owe you more than I could ever repay. And, well, aside from that… I have genuine respect for you. If there’s anyone I wouldn’t mind telling, it’d be you.”

She briefly closes her eyes, contemplation showing on her countenance. “Your reassurance is appreciated. Very well. I ran through multiple simulations of this moment in my head, testing everything from varying intonations to differing syntax, only to never arrive at a satisfactory outcome. It’s my hope this isn’t received the wrong way.”

When she reopens her eyes, there’s resolution and tenderness in equal parts gleaming inside. She’s truly come far in the few weeks you’ve spent together. You pause your previous ministrations, offering her your undivided attention. The room, inaccessible to anyone else aside from you both, goes silent. The weight on your lap feels more pronounced, as if bothered by your action’s cessation.

You write that sentiment off, owing it to your overactive imagination.

“After everything he’s put you through…”

She exhales softly before finishing her sentence. “…Why is it you still visit The Balladeer?”

For such a heavy inquiry, you find yourself smiling, oddly enough. There’s a catharsis to be found in someone finally managing to voice what countless others must be thinking, yourself included. Before you can wrestle with the task of answering her, you glance downward, picking up where you left off. Your fingers run through dark blue tresses, silky to the touch. You can still pick up on notes of his favored kyara wood. This is the longest you’ve ever gone without burning it for him, so that he may lay his clothes atop a frame containing the incense within, imbuing it with a rich scent.

The fabric must not be the only thing it seeped into.

One night, you found yourself setting it up without realizing what you were doing. It wasn’t until you lit the match that you remembered he was elsewhere, someplace far from you, a separation you never thought would be possible. You had long since come to terms with him being a permanent blight on your life that your immune system had evolved to endure. Being cured of a disease is not as easy as one may expect. You lived with what you thought to be chronic malaise for so long, that normalcy became a stranger, and deviancy a friend.

“Before I can answer that, allow me to tell you about the last conversation we had, before you arrived with the Traveler.”

“If you think it best.”

His physiognomy had been so different then, compared to what you’re seeing presently. There was arrogance, a general disregard for any lifeform that wasn’t yours or his, and malice that rose from a simmer to a boil. The point of contention centered around what it meant to be weak and what it meant to be strong. He looked down upon the cause you championed, sneered at your supposed naivety, and waved off every point you made as if it were a mosquito that buzzed by his ear.

“I have faith in Lesser Lord Kusanali. If I can’t bring you to reason, she’ll certainly find a way to. Her benevolence lets her see things you’re blind to.”

“You’ve lived too long to entertain foolish thoughts like this,” he condemned. “Is the state of the country I intend to conquer not evidence enough for you? Buer’s ‘benevolence’ was ultimately her downfall. She allowed herself to be trampled over by her own people. Sure, an argument could be made that this was for the greater good, had her shortsighted denizens done anything worthwhile with her martyrdom. Instead, they squandered it, chasing after their frivolous human pursuits. And you still have the audacity to look me in the eye and say I’m inferior to her? That she is who you side with?”

Every word he spoke resounded like a low roar of thunder. He trembled with anger, his nostrils flared, and electricity slithered through the air in unsteady currents. You were not the least bit impressed by his hubris. His attempts at intimidation failed to impress — you remained firm and returned his glare tenfold. The Sages were on standby elsewhere, probably worrying the skin off their knuckles due to the explosive confrontation between you and their man-made god. They didn’t want to get in between the explosive confrontation, not that you could blame them. You didn’t want to be in this position yourself.

The final battle loomed overhead; Scaramouche had no more time to waste with you, though he did anyway. He couldn’t bring himself not to.

The tempest in his eyes calmed momentarily. He showcased a softness that was reserved solely for you, unwanted as it was and always has been. He shook his head, muttered some curses beneath his breath, then extended his arm out toward you. You regarded it warily. An unspoken plea was exchanged, centuries of his forced companionship allowed you to translate what his lips wouldn’t dare speak.

Accept my hand, every ounce of his being seemingly screamed. Accept me.

Something told you that if you asked him to beg, he would’ve.

Instead, you turned your head away. You barely missed how his face fell yet saw enough to know how deep your continued rejection cut. His formally outstretched fingers balled into fists. He turned his back to you, whatever expression he wore then a secret only Celestia was privy to. The Sages were ordered to take you elsewhere, until he had finished ‘cleaning up the trash’ that dared threaten him. He was determined to see his inauguration of a god carried out. Your apparent heresy did little to dissuade him, if anything, he was likely further convinced that he must cement his position to earn your subservience.

He didn’t look back when you were dragged out. Still, you heartily exclaimed, “A smart choice! If I stayed, I would’ve jumped in the line of fire so you’d be forced to shield me. What an opening that would’ve made. Benevolence might not be a weakness for Lesser Lord Kusanali, but yours for me most certainly is.”

“... Insufferable creature,” he gritted out. His voice then dropped an octave. “I’ll come for you when everything’s said and done. Remember that.”

He should be proud, for you’ve fulfilled the last request he gave you. You remember it all too well.

“Is it fear, then?” Nahida conjects after your tale’s conclusion. “The Balladeer will no longer be able to impose himself on you, even after he wakes. I’ll see to it personally. The aid you’ve provided me in reconstructing Sumeru should not go unrewarded.”

She could tear him limb from limb and his remains would still crawl defiantly toward you. It’s a grisly thought, so you decide to keep it to yourself. You give her a gentle smile.

“It isn’t fear. No, it’s something far more complicated than that. I think… that maybe… I want to know if his convictions have changed. I meant every word of what I told him about you. It wasn’t spoken for the sole purpose of riling him up. I have an eternity to live out now, thanks to him. It’d be far more manageable if I could finally have the satisfaction of proving him wrong. After all, spending the rest of forever worrying over unsettled what-ifs would be torture.”

You go from combing through his hair to feeling the nape of his neck, where you recall an Electro symbol resides. Proof of his divinity and how he was once destined for a greater purpose. The spot is particularly sensitive if memory serves.

“There is no one who knows the puppet who named himself ‘Kunikuzushi’ like I do. I’d go so far as to say I know him better than he knows himself. The victim of countless betrayals who decided lashing out against the world was his only recourse,” your fingers ghost over his skin. “He was kind once, long ago. ‘Benevolent’, as it were. What he said about you being trampled over due to this quality applied to him. I spent centuries trying to undo that damage. First for my sake, then for others, when I saw the damage he was capable of inflicting.”

It’s getting to be about time to leave. Nahida is busy overseeing her nation’s painstaking recovery and you have your own commitments. Many people were hurt in the wake of Scaramouche’s actions, whether they knew the responsibility lay with him or not. If there’s anyone who is familiar with this unique affliction, it’s you, and while their healing might not be your responsibility, you’ll never experience it yourself if you remain stationary.

You cradle the back of Scaramouche’s head so it doesn’t abruptly hit what he’s resting on. Ever so slowly, you creep back, detaching yourself fully from his person. A thin sheen of Electro energy envelops him in your absence. Nahida inferred this to be a subconscious defense established to deter contact should anyone try, while he’s in such a vulnerable state. It diminished only for your touch. Anyone else who risked coming into physical contact would’ve been fried the instant they tried.

Standing to your full height, you overlook his serene figure. There’s not a hint of ire to be found. His long eyelashes brush against unblemished skin, his soft, pink lips part, and his eyebrows turn slightly upward. Was this the expression he wore eons ago? After Beelzebul finished her prototype to the magnum opus that’d eventually take the role he was meant to occupy? Floating around in the depths of his unconscious, he’s free from the resentment that’d otherwise shackle him to the ground.

You’ve thought to ask Nahida what it is he dreams about since that’s all he can currently do. However, it doesn’t take the God of Wisdom’s power for you to safely guess that most, if not all, likely center around you.

A warm green hue flows throughout the room as Nahida activates the exit, sensing that you’re ready to move on for the day. You don’t join her just yet, sparing your comatose oppressor a few more moments of your time. There are still words heavy on your tongue that must be spoken.

The back of your knuckles grazes his cheekbone. He is undoubtedly beautiful, for one who hosts such an unseemly soul. A husk who could never hollow you out to match his own desolation.

“I want to be there when he realizes hurting others may get you far, just never to the end. Heh. I’m sure that must sound like petty revenge to you. Maybe it is — and I’m only sugarcoating it to make myself look better. Either way, I need that more than any boat back to Inazuma, a homeland I no longer recognize.”

Suddenly sheepish, you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you think less of me now, Nahida? I can’t blame you if you do.”

She shakes her head. “I’m the one who asked, and as such, I was prepared to accept any answer I was given. It shames me to admit this, but… I can’t say I fully understand. I see you don’t entirely yourself. Something tells me he won’t either, when it comes time for him to reawaken. He expects you to be elsewhere, as far from him as you could possibly get. He’ll be surprised by how close you are instead. I wonder which of the two would serve as a more fitting punishment.”

You shrug helplessly at that. “It’s difficult to say.”

A comfortable silence settles in over you both. You stretch your arms over your head, having maintained your former position long enough to grow stiff. The feelings that haunted you when coming into contact with Scaramouche again were surprisingly sparse. Humming Inazuman melodies, letting him rest his head on your lap, running your fingers through his hair; these were all demands of his that your body carried out without any real consideration. It just felt like what should be done after acting that way for centuries.

“Shall we head back?” Nahida offers, breaking the silence.

This time, you nod, feeling you’re ready. There’s a mutual understanding between you both that nothing else needs to be said on the topic. You begin walking over to her side, that is, until an unexpected motion stops you dead in your tracks.

There’s a weak tug on your long sleeves that comes from behind — where Scaramouche slumbers.

You freeze from head to toe. Your breathing grinds to a halt, as does your heart, and any semblance of coherent thought. Nahida’s eyes begin to glow, anticipating whatever may come next. He wouldn’t dare hurt you, though what he might see fit to try on her was another ordeal entirely. He may no longer be in possession of the gnosis, but neither was she; nor did she have prowess in combat. Hence why it was a risk the compassionate Archon took in coming down here with you. The hope was that he’d reawaken any other time so you’d both be prepared well in advance.

Your newfound loyalty toward Nahida urges you to overcome your stasis. You turn on your heel, ready to talk a mile an hour if that’s what was necessary, only to find—

—Ah. He’s out like a light. It must’ve been an instinctual movement on his part.

After everything, he just refuses to let you go, stubborn creature that he is. Now that wouldn’t do.

Shaking your head, you peel his hand off the dangling fabric, watching how his arm falls limp by his side. He isn’t freed from deep sleep’s tendrils yet. That seemingly insurmountable obstacle lies ahead in your hazy future.

“You never change, do you, Kuni?” you hum, giving his hand a single squeeze, more from pity than anything. You then turn your back on him and return to your previous task. Nahida’s posture relaxes, having pieced together it was a false alarm like you did. She occupies herself with the final steps to leaving the special space you both currently occupy. Or, as she so eloquently put it, ‘a place where he could do no more evil.’

She shares one final thought before you’re both transported back. “I’m curious to see if he can change.”

You smile at that.

“Trust me... so am I.”

#scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #yandere wanderer x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #yandere kunikuzushi x reader #my stuff

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mythserene · 4 months

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A BEATLE DIDN’T SAY THAT! Lewisohn’s lab-created quotes

“One of the things about this book that is a strength is it’s not me saying anything, it’s them or other people. I shape the text, I plot where it goes, I weave it, but the quotes are theirs. And so when I’ve got Paul McCartney behaving in a way some readers might think, ‘Whatever, oh dear,’ it’s actually him saying it. So you end up thinking that to his own credit he said that. It’s not me saying it.” (Mark Lewisohn, ‘Noted,’ (October 7, 2013) Somerset, Guy.)

This is hella long, and that's because it's actually a full blog post. (In case you want it in a less monstrous form.)

A lot of people for a long time have put a lot of trust in Mark Lewisohn’s footnotes. Or at least in the fact of those footnotes. Because once you dig through them for any length of time you quickly discover that Mark Lewisohn’s footnotes hold secrets that would get him expelled from any undergraduate program. They reveal a “history” often contrived through a mass of Frankenquotes, ala carte creations, Lewisohn rephrased ‘paraphrases,’ and worse. For some parts of the narrative things aren’t too bad, yet in others monsters lurk around every corner. But this is not the sort of thing that’s graded on a curve, and it is past time to have a conversation about what standards should be accepted in Beatles’ scholarship.

Lewisohn lists his sources unlike most others. And his footnotes alone are more insightful than some other writers’ books. (Reddit, r/beatles)

I do not judge footnotes based on their insightfulness, nor do I want to single out a redditor, but I grabbed the comment because it’s an opinion that is widely shared and even accepted as canon. At least by people who have not combed those freakish footnotes. And while the pages of piled up sources do look fearsome en masse, a closer inspection reveals an offense to the truth, a threat to the record, and a blight on Beatles’ historiography.

“The rules for writing history are obvious. Who does not perceive that its chief law is never to dare say anything false, and never dare withhold anything true? The slightest suspicion of hatred or favor must be avoided. That such should be the foundations is known to all; the materials with which the building will be raised consist of facts and words.” –Cicero

A Look at Lewisohn’s Lab-created Frankenquotes

FIRST, WHAT ARE QUOTES? AND WHY ARE QUOTES?

Quotes are the soul and center of recorded—and recording— history.

And the rules around quotes and quotation marks are pretty simple. Most people, even if they’ve never written anything beyond a term paper, understand what quotation marks represent.

A set of quotation marks means, “This person said or wrote ‘these exact words’ at some given time.” You can smash a quote from two hours before or two years before right up against a separate quote to make your point—although it might get your grade lowered—but what you cannot do is take two different statements from two different times and make them seem like they are one statement.

When you put words inside one set of quotation marks you are stating, in black and white, that the identified person made this statement. That they said all those words together—or if you want to excise a reasonable part and use ellipses to represent that— as part of the same statement.

Look, combining two separate quotes that are not part of the same thought or topic is not a subjective issue. It is not an issue of controversy. Quotes are the bone marrow of written history. Quotes are the alpha and omega. In academic work or journalism they have to be, which makes sense as soon as you think about it. If it was cool for me to take a transcript and grab half a sentence from page 2 and half a sentence from page 17, push them together as if those words were spoken one after the other in a single thought, I bet I can manage to get those words to say almost anything I want.

Separate thoughts must be in two separate quotation marks. Separate. Somewhere between four sentences and a paragraph is widely accepted as the “two separate quotes” line, and there can be some ethical and technical wiggle room in a long rant by a person, but what makes all that subjective nonsense go out the window is if the quotes come from two separate questions. Or two separate days. That’s two quotes. Not hard.

Which again, makes sense if the point is conveying information to the reader and lessening the chance of a writer manipulating someone else’s words to express something that the person didn’t mean.

This is the contract inherent in a quote. These are the rules we all agree to and understand, and these are the reasons why. And there’s no reason to break them.

Why do you want me to believe that John said these two things at one time? What was wrong with what he did say?

THE FOUR MOST COMMON WAYS MARK LEWISOHN MAULS THE MEANING OF THE QUOTE:

The Basic Lewisohn Frankenquote 🧟‍♂️

(“CONCLUDING FIVE WORDS FROM—” – I cannot even see the point of this THREE PART monster. Full footnote reads: 9) Author interview with Tony Meehan, September 6, 1995. (“I met George again in 1968 and for some reason he was harboring a grudge against me. He was very, very uptight about it—’You blocked us getting a recording contract …’ ”) First part of George quote from interview by Terry David Mulligan, The Great Canadian Gold Rush, CBC radio, May 30 and June 6, 1977; concluding five words from interview for The Beatles Anthology)

This three-headed monster attributed to George Harrison is a very dull little guy. Not particularly venomous. Just convenient, I guess. For whatever reason, Mark Lewisohn decided it was worth rummaging through the quote buffet until he collected enough pieces for George Harrison to say this thing. “…concluding five words from…” What are we even doing here? No, really. Please tell me.

And like a lot of the footnotes for these bespoke quotations, there are further problems. “[F]rom interview for Beatles Anthology”? An interview that aired? In one of the episodes? Can you narrow it down? I guess I’ll just have to listen very closely to them all and hope I don’t miss the five words.

But if we got bogged down in the sorts of trivial details that would immediately lose a college student a letter grade off a History 101 paper we would never get anywhere. We have to stick to the violent felonies.

*Love the "George would say——" Uh, would he? Well, I guess after all that trouble you went to, he would now. It's really incredible how cavalier Lewisohn is about a Beatle's words.

These sorts of reconstituted, lab-engineered, made up “quotes” are shot throughout Tune In. “Quotes” made up of words from two, three, and even four sources, spoken months or often years apart.

Ala Carte Creations 🍱

It really is a buffet, and these ala carte creations come in all shapes and sizes. They might just be words that have been plucked up and glued back together to make something more useful to a particular narrative. (Ellipses or dash optional.)

TUNE IN: “John saw a bigger picture, and it would be surprising if it wasn’t equally obvious, or made obvious, to Brian and George. He likened Paul’s enduring snag with Brian to his other long-standing difficulty: ‘[Brian] and Paul didn’t get along—it was a bit like [Stuart and Paul] between the two of them.’” (Footnote 37: Interview by Peter McCabe and Robert D. Schonfeld, September 1971)

Bonus 🍒 Phoebe's dramatic reading of John's original quote:

The Donut 🍩

Then there are a seemingly uncountable number of “quotes” with a sentence or three ripped out from the middle, but with zero representation that more words were ever there. (And in most of these particular deceptions, the simple representation of something excised (. . .) would make the quote fine. There are a lot of these, but they are also the easiest to fix.)

Chapter 10: “I was in a sort of blind rage for two years. [I was e]ither drunk or fighting. **It had been the same with other girlfriends I’d had.** There was something the matter with me.”

And then there are the true buffet bonanzas, words lifted and twisted beyond recognition until they say something brand spanking new.

However, John remembered Paul’s attitude to Brian being very different. John was always emphatic that Paul didn’t want Brian as the Beatles’ manager and presented obstacles to destabilize him, to make his job difficult … like turning up late for meetings. “Three of us chose Epstein. Paul used to sulk and God knows what … [Paul] wasn’t that keen [on Brian]—he’s more conservative, the way he approaches things. He even says that: it’s nothing he denies.”

The Lewisohn Remixes 🍸

And then there are the “paraphrases.” I couldn’t even begin to guess how many of these there are, and often they aren’t even paraphrases, but whole new Mark Lewisohn re-interpretations with quotation marks slapped around them. But if you don’t check, you probably won’t know, because like this Lewisohn rewrite of a well-known Mrs. Harrison quote, there’s a good chance you’ll recognize the bulk of it, making it less likely that you’ll catch the scalpel work excising Paul. And while I don’t want to get caught in the nooks and crannies of intent in an example like this one I have to say, just this once, that what has to be a purposeful excising of Paul to create a slightly new quote on one side, combined with a badly acted, bad faith—(or bad scholar)—“Where was Paul when John’s mom died?” on the other, is par for the course.

George Harrison’s mom’s made up Lewisohn rephrase which coincidentally removes Paul from the imagery.] ❦ LEWISOHN:“ Asked some years later to describe how he’d been able to help John cope with the loss of Julia, Paul could remember nothing of the period at all. It could be they didn’t see much of each other in the summer of 1958. John was working at the airport, and Paul and George went on holiday together—adventurous for boys of 16 and 15. But Louise Harrison would recall how she encouraged George to visit John at Mendips, “so he wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts.” ❦ DAVIES: “They��were still practicing a lot at George’s house, the only house where they got endless hospitality and encouragement. . . . I forced George to go round and see him, to make sure he still went off playing in their group and just didn’t sit and brood. They all went through a lot together, even in those early days, and they always helped each other.”

Why do you have to slice and dice and reconstitute people’s words? No writer, and certainly no historian, should ever feel empowered to take words from a historical figure from two or three different places and topics and times, splice them together, and tell us, “Winston Churchill said this.” No he didn’t! Why are you so intent on changing the words of the people you’re writing about? What’s wrong with just using two different quotes?

You cannot take two or three quotes from two or three or even four separate statements, stick them between one set of quotation marks and say John or Paul or George or Joe Smith said this.

No they didn’t. They never said that. Why do you want me to think they did??

All these words are Abraham Lincoln’s, but this is not a Lincoln quote:

“Every man is said to have his peculiar ambition. Whether it be true or not, I can say for one that I have no other so great as that of — making a most discreditable exhibition of myself.”

(I kept it ridiculous, although I didn’t have to.)

But I want you, the reader, to be saying to yourself, “Okay, enough already. I get it!” Because in the last few days I have wandered too far into the weeds too many times and written far too many words detailing the multiplicity of ways Mr. Lewisohn does violence to each and every law of reporting historical facts, and could write many more. And I will post a more detailed list of the crimes against the quote that I am charging Mark Lewisohn with as we go forward, but I don’t think we need that now. The fact is that every fair-minded person knows what quotation marks represent, and there is no more fair-minded group of people than serious Beatles fans and scholars. And it is those fair-minded scholars who I want most to hear me. Whether you’ve written books or host a podcast or just know that you know a whole lot of stuff and take seriously your part of the trust in preserving the truth about The Beatles for us and future generations, it is you I am really talking to. My Cicero quoting-freaks. The ones who care about getting it right.

“The chief, the only, aim of style is to put facts in a clear light, with no concealment.” - Lucian of Samosata

⁠What footnotes can do, and what footnotes can’t.

You can list multiple sources in a single footnote. That’s not only fine, it’s correct. If I want to tell part of a story based on several sources, that often means several sources in a footnote. But not for one, single quote.

The problem isn’t the footnote, it’s the bioengineered quote on the page that you swept under a footnote hoping I wouldn’t notice.

Which leads us to what a footnote is not. A footnote is not a post-hoc fixative for your textual sins. You cannot do whatever you want as long as you confess it in a footnote. A footnote is not a magic spell. A footnote is not the universally understood symbol for “I have my fingers crossed behind my back.” You cannot fix lies and misrepresentations in the footnotes. Footnotes aren’t for trying to chase down three different sources to match up which part of a manufactured “quote” someone said on which date. Footnotes are not the picture on the front of a puzzle box. I should not need to find corner pieces to figure out which of these George Harrison words were actually spoken together.

Footnotes are a truthful and independently verifiable record of primary sources. It’s that simple.

And taking Mark Lewisohn completely out of the picture for a moment, I feel sure we can all agree that neither John Lennon nor Paul McCartney nor George Harrison nor Ritchie Starkey would want anyone rearranging their words as if they were guitar chords. You wouldn’t take three-quarters of Penny Lane and one-quarter of Across the Universe, put them together and call it a Beatles‘ song. So don’t take three quarters of John to Jann Wenner and one-quarter of John to Lisa Robinson, put them together and call it a Beatle’s quote.

MY PERSONAL STANDARD IS THAT IF SOMEONE REPRESENTS, “A BEATLE SAID THIS,” IT BETTER DAMN WELL BE SOMETHING A BEATLE SAID.

None of the Beatles, dead or alive, would be cool with their words being taken out of context at all, let alone two or three different statements on god knows what being combined into one. This isn’t hard, though. Use two or three separate quotation marks, and don’t take statements out of context. Don’t mix and match their words, but don’t twist them, either. If a person said something, it is the historian’s duty to represent those words to the best of your ability, and then use them to tell a factual story focused on what you feel is important. Staying true to the original words and true to their meaning. If you can’t use those words without twisting them, then change your story to fit their words, not the other way around. If their statement helps tell the story your way, use it! For goodness sake, John Lennon said at least two opposing things about almost every topic on earth, so there should be enough to choose from without being deceptive. I actually want the truth. Don’t you?

Biography is story based around accurately represented, trustworthy and verifiable facts. And look, Beatles fans, whoever your favorite is: we are not going to get the truth about his history if we don’t learn to take these things seriously. Let’s have—if not high standards—at least the lowest generally accepted standards. In the mid-term we need a lot more Beatles scholars with a lot more points of view, and now—right now—we need experienced Beatles scholars to prioritize searching out and finding smart, interested people to mentor. And we simply must ensure that we aren’t allowing to solidify into stone “facts” that are not facts and statements no one ever made. I don’t think any honest Beatles fan—(which rounds up to all of them)—wants any question around that issue.

The record is the most important thing. Now, and always. This is not about John versus Paul. John versus Paul may live on always in our hearts, but for Beatles history, it’s the wrong question. I’d rather someone be up front about their loves, but in the end the focus should be on representing the primary facts in their most pristine form. Love who you love most, but place truth above all. Pristine facts. Pristine quotes. Nothing hidden. Nothing misrepresented.

Let the historical actors speak for themselves. That is their right.

And the historian’s duty.

NEXT, WE DISSECT A MONSTER.

Final note: I became frustrated and (maybe strangely) offended by Lewisohn's obscene pretenses in 2020, but my frustrations were nebulous and unfocused until this incredible AKOM series. I feel much better now. Angrier. But better. They worked their asses off. 🥂

#lewisohn #akom #the beatles #tune in #fine tuning #frankenquotes #lewisohn's monsters #historiography #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison #ringo starr #mark lewisohn #a beatle never said that #beatles #brian epstein #allen klein #Spotify

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