#At least how people perceived him before the betrayal

[dancingdaffodils08]

Luke Castellan is Gold Rush by Taylor Swift. Thank you for your time.

[monabee-draws]

Dorian confessing his intention to return to Tevinter for good is so heartbreaking in the Tresspasser DLC. Because of course he does! It doesn't come out of nowhere, he tells the inquisitor as much before they even defeat Corypheus - he loves his home country and knows that he personally needs to be the one to fix it. Not any foreign power (including you and the Inquisition) but through internal change. And he's so blasé about it when he tells you, keeping his tone light, excited for his future work with Maevaris and the Lucerni! Of course, he didn't want you to find out like that but this is a good thing. He's happy! He's practically jovial!

And then you think about how familiar that tone of voice is. And remember his romance scene, and the nonchalant way he asks you if this whole relationship is just a one-time thing. And how he jokes and jibes with you in the bad-end future during In Hushed Whispers, to the point where Leliana calls him out on the obvious attempt at levity. Barring your brushes with his family, who elicit a kind of knee-jerk anger that cracks his usual mask, Dorian is very good at maintaining that emotional wall. So you listen as your heart breaks, as you consider how to respond to the lightness of him in this devastating moment, and you realise-

Dorian is terrified. The kind of scared where you can't really voice it, not in public, not even in private spaces when you aren't 100% in control. It's scary losing a parent, even one you're not quite reconciled with. To have to take his place and fill a role you've never fit, and somehow finally actually push forward with all the ideals you've been imagining to be so far away for many years. And to do all that on the opposite side of the world from the people who all made you finally believe it could be possible in the first place?

Dorian is so very used to being the brave one, the optimistically realistic one, that he can't possibly burden you - whose heart is breaking, whose Inquisition is failing, whose body is slowly killing them - with all of his own ugly fear. That wouldn't be very charming and dependable and Dorian of him, would it? More to the point, leaning on you would be both more burdensome to you and chafe against his own stubborn pride - not accepting favours is well-established during his romance-specific quest to retrieve his birthright. So instead of taking you aside somewhere quiet, consulting you about his final decision on the matter, and giving both of you the space to grieve, he...

Well he tells Varric. And Sera, and Bull, and Cole. Part of it is practice - how might they react? Part of it is in hope for advice on how to break the news. Varric and Bull are adept speakers. Cole's whole job is compassion. Even Sera's bluntness might help when you're chronically incapable of not sugarcoating things. But all it really does it make things worse, because its a distancing tactic. Nothing can truly prepare him for the crack in your voice, the sharp sting of your flinch and the perceived betrayal.

It's almost ironic, that his romantic lock-in asks you to decide if you're in for the long haul, when Dorian's entire arc is one that will inevitably draw him back to Tevinter. And specifically in such a way as to leave you. Because he does not want you tagging along (at least not now, not as the Inquisitor.) Dorian's fear in this moment is not fully centered on you, the man he loves, but there is certainly a part of him that is back in the Inquisitor's chambers on the opposite side of that question of 'do you want me to stay.'

Dorian Pavus' greatest fear is temptation, emblazoned on his tombstone in the Fade for all to see. And there you are, with your political power, ready to jump in and save the day once again on his behalf. And he's tempted. There you are with your familiarity and a space for him in the South that accepts him for who he is. And he's tempted.

There you are. Loving him. And well...

So he doesn't lower his voice to whisper to you, or hold you too close. He confesses in public where the crowds prohibit hysterics, he sips on precious wine, and he gifts you his sending stone. It is both distance and closeness all tied with a bow. A temptation that he can just about handle. Fear under wraps. Because if he lets you, you will - without even knowing - stop his entire life in its tracks. You represent everything he can never afford to lose to. And it is wretched how desperately he doesn't want to lose you.

[corellianhounds]

The reason Mando does so many “side quests” is because he’s poor. He has to work for everything. He lives a self-sufficient life on the road bringing money back to his tribe to support them because Mandalorians aren’t safe and can only show their faces in town one at a time or they’re perceived as a danger because of how they look and what reputation is attributed to that appearance by many people. Almost every single episode has somebody picking a fight with Mando over the armor when he’s literally just standing there. He has to fight, scrap, save, barter, trade, and work for every single thing he has because the alternative is dying, or people he cares about dying. It doesn’t matter if it’s because they’re attacked or because they literally don’t have the money to eat, most of the Mandalorians we’ve seen live hand to mouth day by day, surviving out of sheer willpower and working together

Season 1 Episode 2: His only means of transportation (/place of living) is scavenged for parts and stolen in pieces. He’s forced to negotiate with the ones who took his stuff and do a job for them so he can get it all back before then having to rebuild the ship (when he shouldn’t have to trade anything for it to begin with)

Season 1 Episode 4: He wants somewhere safe and unassuming he can lay low with the kid and agrees to scare off some local bandits so he can have lodging. His original long term plan was to stay on Sorgan for a few months— He’s willing to fight the bandits and the Walker because that village was where he was given somewhere to eat and sleep and because he had intended to live there long term

Season 1 Episode 5: The hunter that found them on Sorgan forces him to acknowledge he’s not allowed to remain sedentary. He tries to go back to his old job, working as a bounty hunter for money; he and the kid can live on the ship, though it isn’t ideal, but he needs food, fuel, and immediate ship repairs. The betrayal of the gunslinger and confirmation from a target that word of him breaking the Guild Code has reached the literal farthest reaches of the Outer Rim solidifies that he can’t be a legitimate hunter anymore and that people who recognize him or the kid (or recognize them because they’re together) will be gunning for the reward, leading to—

Season 1 Episode 6: Mando going back to the only other life and means of making money he’s known, working shady jobs with criminals in the hope of receiving payment. The job proves even more unpredictable and dangerous than the last one and puts him back at square one again.

Season 2 Episode 1: Mando is a well-rounded character who’s been given an objective outside of just surviving to the next day. He only ends up in Mos Pelgo because he needs information, and he only agrees to fight the Krayt dragon because— as a well-rounded character— he’s promised culturally important relics of his people that he holds in the highest respect. The armor of a dead Mandalorian being given the proper respect (showing the honor he has for his people) is shown to be tied in importance with the kid. At least he’s given some food for the road because it’s clear he wasn’t being paid any money in addition to it.

Season 2 Episode 2: Chasing the barest lead on information about other Mandalorians forces him to take the dangerous passage he does; he only ends up having to survive the ice planet because of the threat of incarceration if he didn’t run. He’s not being paid in money here either AND his ship is literally barely holding together. If it was a horse he’d have to shoot it.

Season 2 Episode 3: Bo-Katan is his last lead on information about a Jedi. The child needs a Jedi teacher so he’ll be safe. By this point Mando is desperate and BKK forces him to do a dangerous job in exchange for information. He’s not getting any money this season because all of the jobs he does are in exchange for information and it’s a lot easier to manipulate and force people who need a favor from you to do whatever you tell them because you have something more specific than money they can’t get anywhere else. He doesn’t have enough money to cover a good fix of the Crest but doesn’t have anything to leverage against the mechanic who did a partial job for all the money he did have left, meaning—

Season 2 Episode 4: He has to call in a favor from a friend. Karga’s willing to cover his fuel, repairs, and docking fees, but oh Mando while you’re here I have this pesky Imperial infestation and since it’ll take a while for your ship to be repaired and you’re not busy…

Season 2 Episode 5: Now he’s finally found a Jedi. Now he may finally be able to give the kid to somebody who can protect him and teach him how to protect himself. Now the kid may finally be able to live a long, safe life, even if it means it can’t be with him. Oh right except this Jedi says she isn’t really a Jedi anymore, and also she’s kind of busy, but maybe she’ll think about it if you help her do her own thing in liberating a town—

Only for Ahsoka to then go back on her deal because she has her own thing going on. Considering how important the whole Thrawn mission is shown to be later, I’m not all that convinced she was ever going to take the kid as an apprentice. She may have been on the fence and maybe considered doing it if Elsbeth didn’t give any information up, but if the whole Ahsoka show was about her search for Thrawn, it’s obvious she has a lot more involvement in that than she’d be able to afford if she took the kid as her ward. The idea that the kid’s too attached to Mando for her to take him as a student seems like a pretty convenient excuse considering she knows this guy has zero clue about anything to do with the Jedi. It doesn’t matter if she’s right or not, she could have been upfront about having more pressing matters she was devoted to.

And then the rest of season 2 is the bigger plot. Episodes 1, 3, 7, and 8 of Season 1 were the overarching plot.

Mando has to live life on the road in a dangerous and unpredictable galaxy doing dangerous and unpredictable jobs. He’s poor. He’s a survivalist. He’s desperate. He makes friends because interpersonal ties are often the only other form of currency he has, and those ties still often come with requests for favors or work in exchange for what they can do for him. Hardly anybody is giving him anything, and even when they do, he still feels obligated to pay them back.

[burst-of-iridescent]

What would change in the Zutara ship/dynamic and/or Zuko and Katara individually if Zuko didn't betray Katara in Ba Sing Se and immediately chose her?

i think most canon divergent zutara fanfictions get it right: they'd probably become close friends in no time, and develop a dynamic similar to what they have in the ember island players. but there's a reason this scenario is best left to fanon - as fun as it would be to see more zutara bonding in the first half of book three, there's always something lost for something gained, and in this case it would likely come at the cost of the depth and intimacy they developed in canon through the WAT and TSR arcs.

it is vitally important to their relationship development that katara gets to be deeply, righteously angry at zuko, and particularly that she goes on her field trip to find yon rha while they're still not on friendly terms. not only does her anger bar her from instinctually falling into a caretaking role with zuko as she does with most of the gaang at one point or another, allowing her to be cared for rather than being the carer, it also frees her from feeling like she needs to fit into any perceived image he might have of her. katara makes it clear to zuko that she owes him nothing - least of all her friendship, and everything that entails.

and it is this very lack of obligation that gives katara the freedom to be wholly and entirely herself. people always point to how katara behaves "uncharacteristically" in the southern raiders to prove that zuko is a bad influence, but the truth is that the way she acts in tsr is an inherent part of who she is. katara can be cold, furious and vengeful just as she can be warm, compassionate and friendly, and the fact that she can freely show both sides to zuko isn't because he's pushing her to be someone she's not, but because she has no need to live up to an idealised version of herself.

this would likely still apply to a degree in a no-betrayal au (tsr would happen in any version of book 3, just because it's so significant to katara's arc), but i find it probable that katara might be more hesitant about bringing zuko along, or less willing to bloodbend before him so readily. katara has to witness zuko's lowest point before she allows him to see hers. she has to take her dark-night-of-the-soul journey with someone she knows has neither the right nor the willingness to condemn her choices, in order to be able to focus entirely on herself and what she needs. very telling that she doesn't ask aang, her future husband, to go with her for support.

it's because zuko allows himself to be a whetstone for the blade of her fury, because he cares enough to find out why, because he tries to help when she's given him no reason to do so, because he stands shoulder-to-shoulder with her at her darkest, most conflicted hour without forcing her to bear the burden of caring what he thinks or feels about it, that katara is able to forgive and befriend him. it is because they see each other at their highest and lowest moments that they're able to have the deepest and most intimate relationship of anyone in the gaang. and none of that would've happened without the betrayal in ba sing se.

after all, love is brightest in the dark.

[bamsara]

Howdy! I just want to take a moment (or two…or three..yeah this is longer than I thought it would be) to talk about your characterization of Narinder in your TRoD fanfic, specifically his grievance over what he perceived the lamb to be and betrayel.

I like to think Narinder repeatedly calling Lambert a traitor (I think at least once a chapter actually lmaoo) over and over, is trying not so subtly to avoid thinking about the why behind the betrayel and the pain that comes with it. Especially since he'd already spent an eternity wondering about the previous betrayal of his siblings. How emotionally torturous it must feel to be in this cycle of rejection, from the people he depended on, even now from his own followers who don't recognize him. And then, when he and Lambert finally appear to be on the same page about something, Lambert goes and spares Leshy, reminding Narinder once again that his divine commands hold as much weight on the Lamb as they will decide to hold.

It isn't up to Narinder to decide how the lamb will act, as much as he wants to. It's one thing for Narinder to have people listening to him, but it's another to actually be heard, and after an eternity of silence during his imprisonment he's absolutely desperate for some form of control and impact. For someone to truly hear him. Which is a shame, because Lambert does, but Narinder cannot recognize it since they don't always give Narinder what he wants (since being a God is all about what you want), and instead are more interested in giving him what he needs.

I assume at this point, after being revived into a mortal form, he's actively given up on trying to understand why everyone just keeps "betraying/rejecting him" and would rather use his own inferences of their behavior as explanation, once again, for that feeling of control, since he's utterly mortified of hearing those words come from their mouths instead of his own (doesn't help that he can actually read minds either). He'd rather kill his siblings than hear the why (not saying the siblings were justified ofc, but understanding one's motivations is, y'know, important to effectively communicating with them in a way that's healthy) Despite needing to be heard, he's internalized that many won't bother listening unless he has control over them in some way, like he did before when he was powerful. When he mutilated his siblings, had Lambert create a cult in his name, being heard isn't just an emotional or mental aspect to his wellbeing, but is literally part of his power as well.

He was/is a God, he's used to followers prostrating themselves just to hear the time of day, giving their all to listen, hear, and follow him. It's why he struggles to separate the aspects that are ingrained in a follower, from those who are a friend. Unless they're also God he can't comprehend much of a difference, and expects them to be of the same or similar standing. He was friends with Lambert when he was Godly, yes, but he still saw himself as above Lambert, and expected them to lay down their life to him like a follower would. Yes, Narinder didn't want to cut them out of his own life in their death, but still expected them to just..die for him. He didn't ***just*** see Lambert as a friend, he saw them as a friend that was also his follower. An exceptional follower he loved, but not an exception. There was a power imbalance that Lambert now sees.

It's why Narinder's utterly baffled and offended, fearful even, at Lambert, someone he deemed as "traitorous", investing their time into still trying to talk to him..listen to him.. for virtually no gain…at his lowest point...when he himself is now "lesser".

Narinder tries so hard to not become invested in those he deems as "lesser" or "traitors" but its near fucking impossible, because like it or not, his desires and needs are so inherently mortal and genuine (desire for power, companionship, love, understanding, control, etc) that if he doesn't close himself off, he may have to face falling into the same pit of disappointment and failed expectations he fell in with Lambert/his siblings once again. So he doesn't, and hides away in his shack until Lambert comes knocking.

And now, as the cherry on top of this emotionally constipated bundle of angsty cat woes, he has to live and breathe as the very thing he deemed as "lesser". Being forced to invest in these mortal needs, now that they're a necessary component to his survival. This is also why I believe he goes on these little crusades with Lambert in the first place as well. Not only because they return to him a sense of routine and normalcy (also pining, coughocoughghhrbogh who said that?), but also because it allows Narinder to forget about investing in his own wellbeing for a while.

He was a God, he didn't have to go through the work it took to just do your laundry, eat, brush your teeth, or take care of yourself since he never had to. The thrill of adventure and battle, the adrenaline rush of near-death experiences, can't hold a candle to the mundanity of work. So when he's not crusading, he just..sleeps..wanders around..the fact he's not socially accepted by his own followers doesn't encourage him either. I mean fuck, he such a complete wreck after Lambert spared Leshy, he crusaded and neglected his health for so long he passed out.

His life is all work now, investing in himself, in others, being forced to have his ego get knocked down a few pegs, and care again despite how much it hurts. None of these things are "given", Lambert's love is not just given (as in, blindly follow) and that's what I believe will be an eventual "eureka" moment for him.

Living is work, but it's worth working for

He ain't hot shit anymore, but that's ok.

Anyway, sorry for the long-winded ramble this was all actually just a very roundabout and ineffective ploy for me to talk about how I relate the song "Don't Speak" by No Doubt, to your Narinder's character. Happy belated New Year, hope you're doing well. :]

LKSDHGKLSDHGD HELLO. This is such a well articulated analyzation of Narinder holy moly, I hope you don't mind me answering this with not much to add on because WOW I'm really vibing with your takes on him and I wanted the world to read this too slkdghlksdhgs. I have a lot of my own takes on Narinder and how he'll progress to be as the story comes along, and eventaully some of this will be talked about in TROD either with the lamb and/or with other characters, particularly Ratau, as he comes to an understanding that others are understanding.

I have not had coffee yet this morning but I could go on for a day and a half about Narinder being used to getting what he wants as a god and the entire process of how actaully lonley and isolating it can be to be continously pedastaled and worshipped verses being on equal, human level with other beings and how long it takes for him to realize that.

HAPPY BELATED NEW YEAR

[modernrifle]

it's crazy how few people talk about how clearly codependent anakin & obi-wan were - they were two halves of the same whole, so without anakin, obi-wan cannot exist as a complete person, and without obi-wan, anakin cannot exist as a whole person either, because in order for him to be himself he needs obi-wan as, again, they are part of eachother. their two identites are so comingled they cannot be separted and be how they were, because a huge part of who they were was eachother. obi-wan will always be anakin's and anakin will always be obi-wan's so they both had to become someone new. because jedis' relationships, on a deep level, are practically nonexitent they had to be everything for eachother, neither of them had anyone else to fill the roles of their lives. obi-wan was - had to be, wanted to be - anakin's master, his teacher, his father, his brother, his best friend. i mean, they are even potrayed as light/dark, and we both now the light cannot be without the dark, and vice versa. they even failed to excavate eachother from their focus as reformed individuals - vader obsessed over obi-wan, was only able to show glimmers of his past self when in his presence, obi-wan was so dedicated and devestated by anakin's change/fall/perceived death that he literally locked himself in a desert simply to watch over what remained of anakin (his children), thought about him 24-7, at least in the novels, and actually hallucinated him as some twisted manifestation of guilt, love, grief. obi-wan, the perfect jedi, forsaked his vow to form no attachments simply because he loved anakin too much to do otherwise, his one flaw was always and will always be anakin, and his pure, simple, unadultered love for him, despite everything. anakin latched onto obi-wan and obi-wan never found the strength to pull him off. the loss of eachother destroyed the both of them (though of course anakin was also destroyed by padme, in his mind). even before the betrayal anakin would always want obi-wan to simply stay when he had to go on missions, and obi-wan could not act the same and constently thought about anakin when away - he even in a novel offhandedly mentioned that it was super strange to not have anakin fighting with him, like he forgot he needed both hands. their bond, affection, was deep enough that even after anakin was knighted they stayed close, became closer than brothers, even after death they both sought eachother out. obi-wan gave his life and death to anakin, and anakin the same. obi-wan's death belonged to vader, as the last part of anakin that he needed to kill, and anakin's entire life was centered around obi-wan. this is PURE MADNESS.

[fmet]

I understand if you’d prefer not to talk about this bc, like you said, it’s a very emotionally fraught topic, but do you think Fujimoto is handling the topic of SA well in CSM? I ask bc I’ve seen a lot of negative reactions to this chapter in a way I’ve never seen about Makima’s, Himeno’s, and Fumiko’s actions

It’s OK. I’m sorry that the response I’m gonna give is somewhat of a nonanswer, but I think dumbing it down to a simple “yes” or “no” might be worse given the subject of discussion anyway, so whatever.

I think a lot of people are horrified by the chapter, and rightfully so, both because I contest Fujimoto wanted this sort of response and because 167 has gone further than either Makima, Himeno or Fumiko have gone in terms of physical sexual assault. Like, he was actually molested in this chapter. Himeno was drunk and vomited in his mouth, Fumiko felt him up above clothes, Makima groomed him into the mentality that this sort of behavior is permissible, but Yoru went “all the way” for lack of better term. Even if 167 is narratively consistent and unfortunately fulfills what Denji’s chara and Chainsaw Man have been leading up to since part 1, this doesn’t make that any less horrifying. Makima and Fumiko and Himeno’s respective attacks on Denji, while terrible in their own rights, just were not as grossly severe.

NTM that him and Asa’s relationship development was actually framed in a positive light for a while, unlike any of the former, so this happening may seem like a sort of “betrayal” from Fujimoto to people who perceived their hypothetical relationship as a source of catharsis for the both of them.

So I think a lot of people saying it was handled badly are just caught off guard and sensitive to having had to see it, which makes sense, because I was too. There are also a lot of people who have valid criticisms of Fujimoto given that he’s treated sexual assault against men as a joke, as something attractive, etc, before. Even knowing this was an inevitable there can still be criticism made of the way it was delivered.

But going into that realm of subjectivity also opens up the discussion of WHAT depictions of sexual assault should look like to be “accurate” and “respectful” to the survivors experiences. How should a victim be portrayed feeling during the assault? How, if it’s in comic form, should the pages lay out? How explicit should it be? Where should the focus lay? What demographics should the victim and assailant belong to? When you start asking these sorts of questions with the intention of concocting a “well-handled” sa depiction, at least for me, you begin to realize that there aren’t any—barring its large scale framing as negative, ofc. Every victim and every act of assault are different, with different reactions and feelings and circumstances leading to it. Every artist and author has a different style of storytelling that may or may not lean into depicting acts of SA in more socially acceptable ways (e.g., completely expunging it, or fetishistically, or with delicacy and care).

Denji is not the type of victim we most commonly see depicted in fiction at all. He’s a boy, he’s hypersexual, his assailants are all women, he doesn’t display much (TYPICAL) sorrow/pessimism and he actively pursues further sexual contact during and following his abuse. I think looking to more common archetypal depictions as a frame of reference to how Denji’s sexual trauma should be handled is asking to be frustrated and confused as to why his is the way it is, instead of illuminated onto whether it’s quote good or bad unquote.

So, if I’m asked to whether it’s well-handled, I would say that it’s clearly horrifying and uncomfortable and unforgiving enough to be a clear reflection of the kind of person Denji is and how he would react to such a thing happening. I think, given Fujimoto’s goriness and tendency to sexualize his women characters, the chapter is very tame. It only shows what it shows to communicate what happens and trigger your revulsion. 167, in it’s entirety, is about as respectful a depiction of SA as you’re going to get with an author like him. But nobody reading csm has to suddenly conform to Fujimoto’s weird fucked up standards, so if you think it’s badly portrayed, then it is. SA is a widespread issue, but it’s also deeply personal, so you are entitled to your feelings towards the chapter as much as Fujimoto is entitled to representing this atypical character’s trauma in an atypical way.

[madelinesnarutoblog]

How can people not empathize with Sasuke here? (And in general.)

After the final fight with his brother, the forehead poke, and hearing the words he heard his entire childhood, he wakes up completely exhausted in an unknown dark cave.

His eyes look empty. His expression is completely vulnerable. There is no happiness there. He looks like a shell of himself.

Only to be bombarded with so much compromising and world-shattering information.

Sasuke doesn't even have the energy to be his usual composed self and really fight back on things he would have perceived as bullshit before. He is vulnerable in these moments. Normally, he would have Chidorid anyone who would have tried to even imply that Itachi was "protecting him". Here he can just state a threat.

Only when he finds out, that he is facing the other killer of his clan, he can react. Even then, shaking and in shock and screaming, because he is clearly overwhelmed.

Heavy breathing and probably spiraling into an anxiety attack.

Everything Sasuke believed in his entire life is being shattered in these moments. The thing that kept him going somehow in the last decade was his desire for revenge/justice. He gave up everything for it. He left behind Naruto and his comrades. He trained with a snake creep, who wanted his body. Betrayed his village. Took drugs and insanely pushed himself.

He finally kills his brother... And Sasuke deep down still had love for Itachi somehow, at least having the tender memories of the two, distorted by Itachi's betrayal.

And then a fucker with a Sharingan, who also murdered his family, comes to tell him, that the man Sasuke had just killed, was actually a great guy, who just wanted to protect Sasuke. That's. a. Pill. To. swallow.

But of course, Tobi goes on, let's remember the men Sasuke just killed, in a good light. Trying so he faints.

When he wakes up, he is tied up and looks even worse than before.

Just to be told that Itachi was ordered by Konoha to kill the Uchiha. That he was nothing but a "pawn".

And it just gets more and more world-wrecking... Sasuke was always so proud of his clan and I recall that he wanted to join the police force. This must also be a shock.

ALSO FUGAKU WAS AN ASSHOLE FOR USING HIS TEENAGE SON AS A FUCKING SPY AND PUTTING THAT MUCH PRESSURE ON ITACHI.

Lovely, manipulating children. :) Having Itachi choose between war and his family is abhorrent. And that the village just covered these crimes and shrugged them under a rug even more so. Worse even. Danzo had them all slaughtered for his own personal gain.

And Sasuke can somehow understand Itachi's choice, because he also avoids the deaths of innocents.

The immense amount of shock and guilt Sasuke must feel in this moment is unreal:

So yeah, Sasuke still somehow loved his brother. That is why he could awaken Magekyo Sharingan. I wonder is Sasuke also tried to cut off Naruto to protect him in that sense...

I mean... Everyone he loved was taken from him. For some political nonsense... His brother was forced to live an extremely shitty live, because of an impossible decision forced upon him....

I still see Sasuke's wish to destroy Konoha as a logical consequence of all that new information... Only that with time he comes to realize it is not Konoha that needs to change... But the whole senseless, violent and corrupt Shinobi system.

Literally all his haters can fuck off and I will die on this hill.

[emyluwinter]

Damn it, I didn't even think that my guess about the betrayal of the three fairy aunts would be used in Chapter 7….

Sorry for the spoilers.

Three fairies just dumped information on Aurora that

She is a princess, she will no longer be able to live in a hunter/gamekeeper's house deep in the forest in isolation. What will happen to the house?Abandoned most likely, as before the arrival of Aurora.

She has a real family and now she still needs to marry a f*ck knows who, because her parents have already agreed everything at birth. Has anyone ever asked the poor girl about this?Nope, why.

They will no longer look after her as before and will not live together so closely as a family (because now she will already be a wife and under the protection of her husband)

THEY HAD MAGIC ALL THIS TIME.

Let's take it in order.

Lilia is going to drop out of college and move to another country. He just throws it in Silver's face like an anvil. As if their home, memories, and time spent meant nothing to him anymore. And for Silver, it's priceless. Lilia is his parent, the father about whom he tells with such tenderness and love of a child every time.

There are hints that Silver had a family before Lilia. Which has never been mentioned before. A thing that has belonged to Silver since infancy? (just like Aurora's crown) It is quite possible that they are even alive and some very significant family.

Lilia literally won't be around. Such a sudden excuse "throwing" is a strong shock for Silver. Yes, Lilia may have been gone for several months before. But now Silver understands that he will need at least two more years to finish his studies and see Lilia. In any case, for Silver, it is perceived that Lilia does not value the time spent for them. Or he so furiously wants to escape from everyone "because you are already big, and I am an old man. I need a rest" (Partly I understand it …)

The moment that Lilia lost her magic for a long time. But didn't say it because I didn't think it was necessary.

A few funny moments.

HOW I LAUGHED FROM THE MOMENT WHERE SILVER FOUND THE RING/BRACELET IN A COOKIE JAR!!

All elderly people keep some things in such things, not cookies. This is already some kind of classic behavior. My grandmother had threads and needles, buttons and all sorts of small things.

And this moment with Lilia's weapon.

Sebek IS THE LEGENDARY WEAPON OF THE GREAT HERO LILIA!! Silver - wait….Father, is that the thing that was lying in the barn? Sebek - what… Lilia - and yes. Do not throw it away, but it will be very useful in the household. It's so easy for her to chop wood. Sebek is almost crying because all this "legendary wrapper immediately went bad" - a legendary weapon ………used as an axe …..stored in an old barn…

the poor crocodile has a trauma for life now.

OH YEAH

ROOK HUNT YOU WILL NOW BE THE FRENCH INDIANA JONES FOR ME!! No one can convince me now!!!

[starswornoaths]

Deliquesce - Commission!

Commissioned by a dear friend @eremiss! Thank you for your trade, darling! :D

cw: feat. canon-compliant character death, grief, panic attack, general trauma.

platonic! wol and Aymeric

Gwen has been burying all her problems in the snow, content to leave her pain where it is numb and can't hurt her. But she's not the only one that's been adding to that proverbial corpse pile. An unexpected but most welcome kinship among proverbial gravediggers forms on a particularly cold night over a lovely cup of tea.

word count: 10,239

~*~

Gwen had trudged through hip-deep grief for so long by the time she had been ushered through the Arc of the Worthy that she had almost acclimated to the slow creep of its rising tide. The journey to Ishgard had been so fraught with loss and betrayal and blood by that point, she could practically picture herself chin-deep in ghosts and guilt.

Foolishly, she had hoped for respite. Just enough to start dragging herself out of it before she would be dragged down by it all, at least.

Then her constitution, battered and threadbare as it was, became buried beneath bureaucracy and blizzards. By the time the truth of the Dragonsong War came to light, it felt like Gwen was barely treading above it all. Like it was all she could do to keep from being entombed in the avalanche.

There were many logs in her proverbial hearth to keep out the chill, at least; what had remained of her Scions were a comfort, and she had begun to rebuild a circle of friends to wall herself in from the cold.

Not replacements. Never. But more who could stand with her as she searched. Those who could help her remember to hope, and introduced to her Scions, to be welcomed among them when they returned. 

If, hissed a voice in the back of her head.

Her whorling thoughts sent her out of bed and pacing her room, though she had only managed fitful tossing and turning before giving in to the buzzing beneath her skin. There was a war of attrition in her mind against her thoughts, and they were intent on starving her out of reprieve.

At least it was in Fortemps Manor rather than the Forgotten Knight that she paced; this way, there were fewer people she could wake with her mumbling and pacing.

Alas, she would have to fend for herself if she wished to avail herself of the kitchens. But then, even stepping out of this room ran the risk of being perceived.

The walls were red—too red. They looked painted in fresh blood. Everywhere in the house, everything was too red. She couldn’t remember if she felt that before they had gone to the Vault but it was all she could think of in that moment.

Were the walls always this red, or had her hands painted them darker? Did she cast the shadow of death in this place, and that was why there was any blood spilled at all? Was she the only one that had noticed, had felt this, this all consuming guilt?

But Gwen had been in this position before. She would be here again, in this familiar place of burden and guilt and strife. While those who lived here and welcomed her as family would disagree with her, her mind would not loosen its claws from the circling drain it had latched onto: that everything that had happened left her unworthy of the bed she was given in this home, having been there and unable to heal the son they had lost because of her.

And that was how Gwen found herself throwing on the previous day’s crumpled clothes, jamming her feet into her boots, and stepping out of Fortemps Manor.

The knight standing guard at the door gave her a respectful nod as she came down the few steps to the street.

“Lady Ashe,” he greeted politely, the same as every knight and noble in this city had since her arrival.

Another handful of snow around her neck. Words formed a tangled knot in Gwen’s throat, and she could do little more than give a tight nod as she hurried past him. 

The Last Vigil was occupied only by the night watch that milled about on patrol, be it at the door of a High House, or marching along the street. They all greeted her the same: “Lade Ashe.”

Gwen pressed her lips together so tightly that they lost feeling but for the pinch of skin beneath her teeth. It was getting harder to breathe.

Desperate for reprieve, she skipped bolting down the walkways to Foundation, and instead made for the nearest aethernet shard to whisk herself away to the aetheryte plaza.

Somehow even more bereft of life than the Pillars, there was but a solitary knight standing watch, who gave but a silent nod as she scurried past. At least the knights and passerby here gave her a wide berth and a quieter sort of reverence; she was more accustomed to ignoring the holes burned in the back of her skull from the eyes of others watching her.

Nowadays, it was out of some misplaced sense of awe, at least, rather than the suspicious eye of one watching a street urchin scuttling around the waste bins. At least the stares burned differently now.

Without consciously giving it much thought, Gwen had begun to make her way to the Congregation, though once she realized what direction her boots were taking her, she let them do as they wished; it was such habit to report in from the aetheryte, little wonder she had done it without choosing to.

Just the thought of looking for more work exhausted her, but the Forgotten Knight was only catter-corner to the Congregation itself, conveniently enough. It was hardly slumming it, but the slight scratch of sheets made thin from years of hard soap would be a damn sight more comfortable to her than lying on sheets with a higher thread count than she could recall ever touching before. It would help her remember being Gwen.

The ale in the Forgotten Knight was just mild enough to handle but full bodied enough to be a cheap and cheerful thrill. Their beds, while not the lap of luxury like that found in her room in Fortemps Manor, were deceptively comfortable given the circumstances. Gwen suspected that Hilda’s myriad donations had something to do with the quality of its upkeep, though knew better than to pry. 

A room could be available, but she had caught the dead hours between supper and breakfast, so she would go to bed on an empty stomach, should she duck in from the cold. It was far from ideal, and her heart wasn’t even half in it, but it was preferable to either looking for work so late or winding her way back up to the Pillars.

As she ascended the last of the stairs, her boots kicked into an unexpected pool of honeyed light that spilled onto the street. It drew her eye toward the second story window that it poured from, solitary in its luminescence. 

Gwen paused in the street, a thoughtful frown marring her brow. Realizing through what window that golden hearthlight was spilling from, she couldn’t help but let out a frustrated but fond huff as she jammed her hands in her pockets as she started walking again. 

What’s he doing up at this hour? she wondered, and picked up the pace across the courtyard to the massive wooden doors to the Congregation, her initial plan of ale and accommodation set aside in favor of instead sating her curiosity.

The graveyard shift found within was so barebones at that hour there was hardly anyone there to greet her—which was why the solitary knight fidgeting by the door to the lift all but confirmed Gwen’s suspicions: her friend was one of the only ones still awake this godsforsaken early.

The attending lift guard looked about ready to fall asleep upright when she came in, and only jolted awake at the clack of her footfalls approaching. 

“O-oh, Ser Ashe,” he greeted her.

That title settled a little easier on her mind—or at least, easy enough to keep the nausea at bay. However informally, it was only a rank. It was something so many other people had that any significance the word had was lost. She was but another knight, same as any other wearing chainmail around her. It was fine.

“Is the Lord Commander in?” she asked once she had exchanged enough pleasantries for three bells past midnight.

“Aye, ma’am—I await his relief, point of fact.” he admitted, visibly uncomfortable at the thought of going up to ask his commanding officer if he might go home. “I, err, I can’t go home until either he does, or my relief shift comes in a few hours. Whichever happens first.”

Well. If Aymeric didn’t realize that his habits were hurting others already, then Gwen would beat him over the head with every new revelation she could until he did.

“May I head up to speak with him?” she asked, and at his hesitation, she added, “he needs a reminder of what the chirurgeon’s orders are.”

While it wasn’t technically a lie, Gwen knew about as much of Aymeric’s medical release as he pretended he didn’t. The man could do with a reminder to rest—or at least, that his subordinate needed one.

Blessedly, either her excuse was good enough or the guard was so sleep deprived that it didn’t matter, as he waved her through to the lift with a jaw-popping yawn and barely another glance.

Gwen spent the lift ride up convincing herself that it was the knight’s exhaustion that let her slip by with little incident. It was a brief enough trip that she at least didn’t have too long to fail in doing so. It eased the sting of it as she stepped out into the Seat of the Lord Commander.

It wasn’t a surprise to see Aymeric at his desk, hunched over an unfurled scroll and only looking up at her intrusion. What caught her off guard was that his armor was haphazardly draped about a spare chair beside the desk, leaving him in a simple gray shirt and dark pants. 

To her, it looked as though he had all but grown roots for how settled into that seat he looked, like a puppet gone slack from severed strings. At the sight of a wincing twitch in his neck, she idly wondered if he had moved at all in hours.

“My friend,” Aymeric greeted her, warm as ever even through the surprise that colored his tone.

After a moment, she clocked the way his shoulders pulled taut—he was trying to stand as straight as his wounds would allow, she realized when he flinched back into a slight slouch. 

Sighing, he chanced speaking after a moment’s pause, “I confess, you have me at a disadvantage. Is aught amiss…?”

The tentativeness behind his inquiry betrayed how much tension he was attempting to hide from her in the asking. In all likelihood, he assumed she wasn’t here for a social visit. Not that she could blame him, for how little they had interacted beyond work—

“Well, I saw your light on,” Gwen said conversationally, gesturing toward the windows behind him. “Still on, actually. Weren’t you supposed to be in bed by now?”

Another wince crossed Aymeric’s face for the briefest of moments but almost as quickly as it came the moment passed, and he was once more all pleasant impassiveness.

“I was just on my way,” he lied—and poorly at that, “I will be but a few moments more, I assure you.”

“Assure your door guard, not me.” Gwen shrugged. “He can’t go home until you do.”

That struck Aymeric right where she had hoped it would hurt the most: that painfully Ishgardian sense of duty. He couldn’t even hide the way he flinched bodily at the pointed comment, and though he straightened from behind his desk entirely, he had the look of a man fighting every urge to curl into an ashamed ball. 

“Y-yes, well—” he stammered in a moment of uncharacteristic gracelessness.

In a way, it was a reminder to Gwen that he was human, too; they were both infallible by demand of their duties and their positions. Even in the face of martyrdom, it was expected—demanded— of them not to falter. 

But they had. They had. And they would again.

Aymeric searched her eyes for a long moment, as if debating with himself. Gwen met his gaze evenly, though she couldn’t help but wonder if he were staring straight through to something—or someone—that she wouldn’t recognize as herself.

Admittedly, she didn’t know him well enough to parse which it was. 

When he let out a sigh so heavy that his posture slumped, she was pulled out of her reverie. Her eyes refocused in time to clock that the rattling of his armor was him pulling his posture straight on his next inhale.

“I know a lost battle when I see one.” he conceded with his hands up, “Pray, at least tell me what you are doing up at this hour on our way, then? Perhaps a walk will do us both some good.”

Though the suggestion caught Gwen off guard, she found it preferable to watered down ale and an empty belly at the Forgotten Knight. Walking would at least keep her occupied—and walking beside Aymeric would at least guarantee that any attention and deference would be directed his way.

It was easy to all but slip into the shadow of his silhouette looming at her side as they made their way out into the night. Easier still to hide in the broad shadow he cast even in a simple winter coat. It was easy, and not a little comforting, to have a friend that mattered enough that she could be paid no mind by comparison. 

Even the thought was enough to inspire a pang of guilt in her chest. Was their friendship one of convenience? Had that been what she had with Haurchefant, too? Was that the sort of friendship he had died for?

Of course not—Gwen knew that. Of course he hadn’t died for that. Of course their friendship had mattered. Still mattered.

Prior to his rescue from the Vault, Aymeric had occupied a space in Gwen’s general social sphere that settled somewhere between “friend” and “work colleague,” where she had mostly thought of him in the same circle of friends, but not necessarily her friend. The same place she had put Estinien, really, though goodness knew where the Dragoon had gone off to in order to mourn in his own way. Quietly, she promised to all three of them, those both here and gone, that she would try to reach out further. Try to show that it mattered.

The walk took them to the Pillars, though Gwen found she minded less with Aymeric to buffer her against howling wind and piercing gazes alike. She had almost missed it happening entirely until it registered that they were halfway up the staircase from Foundation, and the surprise tensed her shoulders despite her best efforts.

If Aymeric noticed the shift in her at his side, he didn’t directly comment, instead saying, “I confess, I would ordinarily sleep in my quarters at the Congregation after dismissing the lift guard, but I do not imagine you would trust me to rest.”

Gwen recognized his tone as intently conversational; he was trying to open a neutral dialogue with her. If she were honest, it was that extra degree of decorum that made her feel set apart from him. 

In a way, it felt like he always, deliberately, said something other than what he truly wanted to, even around those in his social circle. It gave him an air of deceptiveness that she couldn’t shake, despite knowing that he wasn’t actively trying to lie to anyone. 

But Aymeric had spoken and was plainly expecting a response, however politely. Though it hadn’t have been longer than the span of a few breaths, it was just long enough that his expression had taken on a concerned edge to it.

“My friend, are you quite well?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” she lied, “but anyroad: no, I wouldn’t trust you would actually rest so much as I could throw you in yalms.”

His laugh was warm enough to chase away the numbness in her bones, though it returned in a howling rush when that laugh tapered into a pained grunt and a hand pressed at his side. That he waved her off with his free hand did nothing to make that spark of reprieve return.

“‘Tis nothing,” he lied. “‘Tis nothing.”

They walked in silence until they crested the staircase. That quiet existed in a liminal space between companionable and impenetrable. The sort of silence that was heavy with the want to talk and a lack of knowing what to say in that moment.

At the top of the stairs, Aymeric finally found the words he was looking for, and tentatively suggested, “as it is plain we are both in need of some succor, I would invite you in for tea, if you would accept it.”

The offer made Gwen’s steps falter so horribly that he shot out an arm to help her right her footing. As he attempted to smother another flinch at moving too quickly for his wounds, she took a moment to wrangle her thoughts before they got away from her.

An initial reaction was to recoil away from the offer—almost physically, had she not caught herself. It was less that she didn’t feel safe with him—she did—it was more that the thought of being somewhere private with anyone struck her at her spine with a spear of ice.

When had it ever gone well when she had let herself be brought into someone’s fold? Nanamo had nearly paid for that mistake the last time. Other people—good people, people Gwen had personally recruited into the Crystal Braves—had picked up the tab in either a partial or whole capacity. Her path to Ishgard was easily traced; having marched out of a river of blood, her footprints were stark in the snow.

And her hands had been far from clean even before then—

But Aymeric was offering little else but food and friendship. Nothing about the offer struck her as diplicitous or insidious; he had no further motive than ushering them both in from the cold.

In the time leading up to discovering the truth of the Dragonsong War, Gwen had pushed Haurchefant away in fear of letting him in too close, in making his friendship matter too much, and all it had amounted to in the end was letting him die not knowing how much his friendship had mattered. That he mattered.

And here she was, presented with another opportunity to shun another friend. Another fork of diverging paths stood before her. A new spot in the road with the same decisions.

All this mental spiraling over tea, she thought derisively to herself. As if she were some noble. As if she were Lady Ashe. In that moment, she felt deeply and forcibly removed from everything she recognized as herself. 

Ignorant of her mental turmoil, her stomach announced its emptiness. The silence that had ensconced them made the growling all the more pronounced, and when Aymeric’s eyes narrowed as he peered worriedly, Gwen felt red-hot humiliation burn her cheeks.

“And a late dinner?” he sweetened the pot with a sympathetic smile. “I have not eaten recently either—doubtless mine own stomach will begin to harmonize shortly.”

It was only then that he chuckled—an invitation to laugh along, rather than being made the joke, she realized. She chose to take it, and was startled at how good it was to laugh, even a little. The imperfection of it made it feel a little more real. Made her feel a little more real.

Laughing suddenly made the thought of being friends less scary. Just a little. Just enough for that reactionary knot in the pit of her stomach unfurl gently. 

Just enough for her to say, “you had best lead on then, lest we perish from hunger.”

Another, easier laugh trailed them as they gamely made their way up the street to Borel Manor.

Gwen had to put effort into not letting her speculation run wild as to what his home could possibly look like; he was the Lord Commander of Ishgard and a noble besides, surely his estate was buried somewhere deep and towering in the spires of the Holy See, she’d reasoned. 

So it surprised her enough that she almost barreled into Aymeric’s back when he came to a stop at the house neighboring the Atheneum Astrologicum, and realized that he had begun to fumble in his pocket for a set of keys. It was only the credit of her reflexes that let her stop so sharply.

The Manor was modestly grand, if ghostly—she had walked past this home dozens of times before now, and she had thought it a storage building or at least abandoned for how uninhabited it always seemed no matter the time of day. With the crates filling what was once a chocobo stable and no other visible homes facing it on any side of the street, she hadn’t even clocked it for a home despite its structure and style.

 Somehow, everything and nothing about this home fit with the man that now stepped up to its door: grand, but only just. Standing tall in the shadow of the city with its back turned. Looking at it that way, Gwen almost couldn’t fathom Aymeric living anywhere else in the city.

What she didn’t miss, though, is the way he had to wrestle his house key into the lock. The hinges, too, resisted yielding to pressure with the telltale creaking groan of rust and misuse. 

It was almost as if Aymeric were as much a stranger in his own home as she was. 

At the loud thunk of the door reconnecting to the frame and the heavy clang of the lock bolts fitting back into place the light of lanterns and stars was banished, and they were ensconced in shadowy pitch almost instantly. In the darkness, Gwen could hear a few moments of blind fingers scrabbling along a wall in search of a light switch.

It seemed as if that the rest of the manor began to stir with startled signs of life coming from deeper in the home; within moments, a soft but crisp click rang out from the foyer beyond the mudroom they were standing in, and a graceful but aged man appeared from around the corner as light spilled in with a flickering start behind him.

“Master Aymeric!” gasped the man. “We were not expecting you home this evening—do forgive me, I did not prepare any—”

From the moment the gentleman emerged, draped his sleep clothes and house slippers, Aymeric immediately pivoted his focus. Gwen watched with mild fascination as he almost turned into a completely different person in the time it took him to turn around. 

“Lumeaux, pray do not feel you must oblige us at so late an hour!” Aymeric insisted through an easy laugh, hands making a soothing motion in the space between them. “Nennanne would lose what little respect she had for me if I couldn’t handle myself in the kitchens.”

“B-but—!” the servant protested, his eyes flitting to meet Gwen’s for a moment.

But Aymeric was already taking her coat for her and ushering her warmly inside with a sweep of his arm, his attention split between welcoming her and explaining themselves to his staff.

“My friend and I are merely availing ourselves of the fire—which you have perfectly banked that I might stoke anew! Now do take the rest of the evening off, my good man, and please accept my apologies for us disturbing your sleep so.” 

It felt almost painfully Ishgardian to witness, but it did warm her to see her friend in such an informal light. In a way, he felt more human for it. Their words fell away into a familial droning murmur hovering in the periphery of her focus. It was enough to ease away the most immediate tension that had clenched her whole body tight.

That was, at least, until she nearly leapt out of her skin at a warm weight unexpectedly pushing itself against her calf. It was only years of training herself not to impulsively react to things around her feet in case of traps that kept her from leaping back with a winding kick. 

Fortunate that Gwen had such restraint, for when she looked down at the source of this intrusion she was met with the telltale wide, slowly blinking eyes of a housecat. The cat blinked again, slow and sleepy, and let out a wheezy meow.

The noise was loud in the soft din of the foyer—loud enough that it immediately drew the attention of Aymeric and Lumeaux, who ended their conversation so promptly and in sync that it nearly startled Gwen as much as the cat’s appearance had.

An elderly and cantankerous tuxedo cat, she looked up at Aymeric and, upon realizing who it was, practically stepped on Gwen’s feet to cross over and greet her master. 

“I gather the little lady has been most comfortable?” he asked Lumeaux as he watched the cat rear up on her hind legs and put her front paws out to beg him.

Instantly, he bent and gingerly scooped her into his arms. 

“Yes, my lord,” supplied Lumeaux, “though one would be forgiven for presuming neglect for her forlorn wailing as she searches the halls for her master.”

That comment had Gwen looking up in surprise, her eyes settling on Aymeric to gauge his reaction before she could even think on the action.

His flinch was only subdued for the “little lady” fussing in his arms, but Gwen couldn’t help wondering if there was a story there.

“Would that work permitted me to visit more.” he mumbled, stubbornly not looking up from raining attention on his cat. “Alas.”

Prior to their departure to treat with Ysayle, Gwen recalled Estinien mentioning something about Aymeric being a poor liar. At the time, the comment had struck her as odd; as a politician, surely lying is part and parcel of his job?

So it was something of a dawning realization to see Aymeric lying in motion; a cracked mask, averted eyes, a faint flush that dusted his ears: nervousness.

Without looking up from scritching under the cat’s chin, he said, “pray take the rest of the night off as intended, Lumeaux. Amelia is well in hand, and I will see my guest tended to.”

The attendant spared Gwen a meaningful, sidelong glance before he bowed gracefully and excused himself. Though she hardly knew the man for more than a few minutes, she knew someone’s pleading look when she saw it; doubtless, he was just as desperate for Aymeric to rest as everyone else around him. 

Fortunately, she was of like mind. But this exchange left her with more questions than answers.

If Aymeric had seen the look he gave it no reaction, instead carefully walking in a gliding march step toward a plush cushion on a well-loved armchair and laid the little lady carefully upon it as though it were her throne. In all likelihood, she had seized it in a bloodless coup against the master of the House in retaliation for his absence, and it had become just that.

Which only left her to contemplate this unexpected state of affairs she found her friend living in.

“Now, then!” he chirped suddenly once his cat had fully insinuated herself into the armchair cushion. “Pray make yourself at home. I’ll be but a moment.”

At the quizzical tilt of her head, he laughed and explained, “I’ll just nip down to the kitchens for light refreshment. We could both do with something, I think.”

And just like that, the reticence that she had thought a part of the man before her instead settled over him again, any trace of the ease he’d shown gone once more. 

As she watched him step out and disappear into the darkened kitchen and fumble for the light, Gwen couldn’t help but ponder this change, this lack of familiarity despite all they had gone through together. It struck her how familiar this felt—how this must be what it felt to be her friend, in this strange world where she couldn’t anchor herself to her Scions.

Had she earned such reticence, then, with how reserved she had been? Were that his reasoning for his reluctance, she found she couldn’t entirely fault him; it made sense, in a way. It contextualized their standoff in a way that wore down the worst of the edges to it; neither of them could wholly help it, though nor could either of them be the first to entirely unwind that tension.

But then, the man himself had hardly seemed to be open to even those immediately closest to him, only just letting himself be familiar with the man he paid to be there. Was he missed when he was away?

You’ve got a well-run home to come back to and a cat that you adore, but you avoid it all if you can help it. You choose that. Why? Gwen pondered while waiting for Aymeric to emerge with their tea.

At his reappearance, tray in hand and smile on his face, she felt those questions press her tongue to her teeth with their sudden weight rushing to spill from her. Biting them back, she returned his smile with one of her own.

“For fear of further disrupting the staff, I kept to what I could find already made in the larder,” explained Aymeric as he stepped into the foyer, “admittedly, ‘tis more odds and ends than a meal, but—”

“That’s alright,” Gwen said without even looking at what he had brought, hands motioning in a placating manner, “please, sit down.”

There was only a moment where his mask slipped—a wince he smoothed back almost quicker than she could perceive it happening in the first place.

“Of course.” he said tightly.

At first, Gwen thought she might have erred enough to cause offense, but the strain in Aymeric’s jaw as he bent a few ilms more to set the tray down on the table gave away the root cause of his consternation.  

“Your wounds…they’re getting worse, aren’t they?” she guessed.

Blessedly, Aymeric shook his head and said, “Not worse, though certainly not better. Nor fewer in their number.” 

After a moment, he finally huffed a sigh and gestured toward a plush armchair, insisting “Pray sit down. You are worrying me, my friend.”

It wasn’t until he had said something that she realized that she had denied his request to make herself comfortable twice before he had even gone to get them tea. It would certainly explain the pinch in his good cheer; he was likely unsure of how to be denied the ability to be a good host.

“Sorry—you just worry me, too.” she slumped into an overstuffed armchair with a huff. “You could at least sit down yourself, you know.”

Aymeric startled in a way that suggested to Gwen that it had not occurred to him to also take a seat until she had mentioned it. After a few moments of contemplation, hands frozen mid-reach for the teapot, he gave a decisive, singular nod.

“I will, yes—once I have your tea poured—”

He looked so tired all of a sudden. The war had pulled at all of their exhaustion, though she hadn’t realized quite how it had aged any of them so much as she did in that moment.

When he twisted at the waist to lift the pot of tea and fill her cup, Aymeric flinched badly enough he had to set it back down again for a moment and press at his abdomen. In an instant, the color had drained from his face as he clenched his jaw and took a sharp, shuddering inhale through his nose.

“I’m fine.” he said—and there was more of a tremble in his voice than she had ever heard from him.

Gwen hadn’t realized he had said something in response to her until she noted that she had half risen from her seat before he’d uttered a single word but the realization made her freeze on the spot, peering up at him in alarm.

He had never sounded more honest than in that moment of choosing to lie, with all decorum and poise gone from him. He had never seemed more real to her than in that moment, looking at someone battered and broken and still trying to serve.

Gwen saw Aymeric, for just a moment, free of his trappings and station. She saw her friend—or at least, the man that she could befriend. 

“Easy now, take your time.” she said, even knowing that it likely didn’t make sense to.

She watched him nod and take a slower breath. His eyes slipped shut as let out a breath through parted lips. She watched him catch his breath for a few horribly tense moments as she sat frozen and half risen from the sofa, caught between the want to help and the fear that it wouldn’t.  

After a long moment that seemed to stretch for eternity, he made to reach for the teapot again.

“I am well,” he promised her again, “if reminded of my limitations more often than I would like of late.”

“I take it your wounds aren’t healing so well?” she chanced, still not sitting fully back down.

To his credit, Aymeric didn’t hide the way he winced that time. “Progress is rarely so linear a thing.” he argued, however weakly. “Less so, when there are…aggravating complications.”

A delicate way to sidestep being stabbed, but then neither of them seemed keen to revisit that. Neither of them seemed keen on revisiting much of their history tonight—shared or otherwise.

Before she could think better of it, she had stood fully from her seat and reached for his hand as he made to lift the teapot again. It had been an automatic reaction: to reach, to help.

“Here, I can—”

Aether hummed at her fingertips. Just under the skin in the palm of her hand it prickled like static electricity, waiting to flood out of her in a rush of healing magic. Every part of her wanted to ease the discomfort of her friend in that moment. 

She knew how to do it. All she had to do was push it out of herself—

—and the blood would be staunched. All she had to do was keep pushing, keep digging for more, more aether to knit flesh and weld bone. 

There are eyes on her. They feel…hopeful. Expectant. Breaths held in a prayer circle around and overhead of her. Bathed in the golden light of evening and radiant from her power blooming out from her hands, they watch as waves of healing magic roll off of the bloodied, blazing hole in his chest like smoke off the surface of a lake.

All she had to do was keep giving everything she had, and it would eventually be enough.

If she tells herself this fervently enough, it will eventually be so. She doesn’t know what else to believe in this moment. With her aether, she pushes further to try and sense where his pain is at its worst.

When there is no guidance from her aether, no direction to point where the pain is on her patient, her threadbare faith is shattered and scorched. There is no guidance to the pain because he felt none. 

The only blood she sees is the dribble that runs down his chin as he gurgles on it. He is shifted by hands that are not hers, to make him more comfortable. There should be more blood, but there is only light: from his chest, from her hands, there was only light.

Everything in her years of trials, training, and tribulations tells her that she has never seen a chest wound half a severe as this turn out to be anything less than fatal. Her magic has accepted what is about to happen long before she ever could. She isn’t sure she ever can.

It was only a testament to the knight’s strength that he was able to drag ragged breaths through his sundered lungs. Through the glowing iridescent light that turned what was left of his ribcage in to a lantern of holy light, she knows the extent to which his battered body has been rent asunder. 

She persists anyway. She does not believe it. She can’t.

There is only light, and she pushes out more of it from her hands. When that isn’t enough for her magic to find purchase, she lets it bleed out of her fingertips, from her heart. The aether glows with a brightness that rivals the sunset on the horizon. 

She can’t see him anymore. She can’t see any of them anymore. Still, she pushes.

As the light brightens, blooms, swells, she feels a coldness creep down her fingers, through her veins, up her arms. It feels as if she is pouring every onze of aether, spilling every drop of blood in her body, all for the hope that the thread of her magic could catch in his flesh and begin to sew him back together like a patchwork mammet.

But a burning crater cannot be cauterized. There is no floor to the yawning chasm of that wound. Her aether, her tears, her friend, it all falls, falls, falls…

“Gwen!”

It was far from a shout—a call would be more appropriate, given its soft but strained urgency—but it was loud enough to snap her focus to the present. It was enough for her to remember that while that nightmare had happened recently enough that their wounds had not even scarred over yet, it was only a memory now. 

Coming back to her body after an Echo was always disorienting, but she was glad for Aymeric’s presence in that moment: as she began to test her limbs, she realized, belatedly, that he had maneuvered her back into her chair.

“Easy now,” he said, and there was a softness to his voice that she had not thought he could manage. “Easy. I know not the specifics, but I know shock when I see it.”

Limbs leaden and head filled with cotton bolls, Gwen watched in a daze as Aymeric began to fuss as much as his wounds would permit. His hands were a blur across the serving tray as he set about arranging things for her. Eventually, she had to close her eyes and stop watching to minimize the nausea.

“Here,” he said after a moment, and she felt the rush of warmth of a steaming cup of tea being hovered over her nose. “Drink.”

Moving her arms made her hands shake. When he noticed this, Aymeric frowned and gently bat her hands away.

“I can hold it—you are trembling,” he said softly. 

When she realized he was holding the cup for her to drink from and she tried to feebly protest, he shook his head and insisted, “It is no burden—every knight has been here at one point or another. Drink,” he repeated the gentle command, “Small sips, now. There we are.”

Heat bloomed on her face hotter than the tea could account for. All the same, she tipped her head forward just enough to drink—and found herself grateful that he knew how to angle the cup so as to prevent it dribbling down her chin. The way in which he does so tells her in a way that he does not elaborate on with words that he had done this before.

The tea was strong but well brewed, heady and robust on her tongue as she sipped. After a few moments of the caffeine working its way through her system Gwen sat up straighter and took the cup from Aymeric with steadier hands, and he gladly ceded the cup to her.

With his hands freed from serving her tea, he began to move back to the tray—and with eyes less hazy she could watch him break apart little biscuits and pieces of cheese, some almonds, and soft baked bread, tearing them into little pieces and putting them on a small plate before her.

“Nibbles,” he said aloud when he noticed her staring. “Easier to keep down, less work to chew.”

His selection looked deliberate, nothing with too much of a scent to upset her stomach but still offering her enough to be substantive. After seeing his work done to his satisfaction, he took a hunk of bread and a few biscuits for himself with less care and attention paid to the plating.

Gwen continued to drink deeply from her teacup to avoid speaking in this moment, overwhelmed by care she felt both unworthy of and unaccustomed to. Her head still felt foggy, though the cobwebs that filled her mind after such a harrowing recollection had begun to knock themselves loose, aided by the tea.

Aymeric waited until she set her cup down and refilled her cup while she busied herself with a bite of biscuit. Ginger, bright and sweet, burst on her tongue with the soft chew of what she realized was a molasses cookie. 

Gwen thanked him quietly for topping off her cup. He murmured a vague nicety in that near-automatic way he always did with effortless earnestness. Something to the effect of “‘Not at all,” but she was more focused on the way his eyes darted everywhere but her as he set the teapot back down on its cozy.

A palor hung over the parlor as they settled back into their seats. Wounds both emotional and physical unintentionally reopened, they both felt flayed open and raw for how they had dragged themselves through the last several days.

Longer, really. Gwen wondered how long it had been for Aymeric. In a sleep deprived sort of way, she wondered how long it had truly been for herself while she was as it. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out in the heavy quiet.

Aymeric looked up at her in surprise, but she had already felt the momentum of her rambling picking up; borne of a need to fix this heavy silence, her mind was already scrambling against the rubble of her focus to find something to distract them with.

“You have naught to be sorry for.” he replied, surprise still writ plain in his features.

She would beg to differ, but that was a whole other story entirely. All she had were stories, after all. All she had was what she was capable of—what she had been kept around for, in most situations, she guessed. 

For a time, she had thought that Aymeric had also seen her that way. Maybe he even had, before they had known each other. 

Perhaps his still did—

“Here I am dwelling, when I could be telling you one of my exploits!” she chirped so sharply her voice cracked.

“Wh-what?” he sputtered.

Gwen’s outburst had caught him so thoroughly off guard that he hadn’t had time to hide the shock and confusion on his face.

Already in verbal freefall, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing, even as she had seen his expression, babbling, “Ah, ah, which one should I…? How about my fight with Leviathan? Well, you probably heard it before we met, right? But I could tell you—”

Under the pressure of performing, her voice splintered again. Nevertheless, she tried to push through. To distract. To fix. To run. She wasn’t even sure anymore—

“Gwen.” Aymeric interrupted her gently. 

Her voice had squeaked on the start of her half-formed tale—it had made it all the easier to let her words die on her tongue. It seemed to be enough to help Aymeric decide something, as he reached across the settee to lay his hand over hers. 

She startled at the contact—his hand was warmed from the teacup, but his touch was faint. It didn’t trap her; it would be easy to slide her hand away from his. Recognizing it for the offer of comfort that it was, she made no move to pull away, but looked at him ponderously.

His expression was patient, if a touch sad.

“You need not entertain anyone with your dossier—least of all me, my friend,” he insisted, “even had I not read them already, I would not ask of you what would not bring you joy to share.”

“Then my stories would bore you, I fear. My favorite parts are rarely the things that make it into songs, Aymeric.”

“Then I have never heard them before—thus, they cannot possibly bore me,” he insisted with a gentle sweep of his hand on its way to plucking his teacup from its saucer again, “and you will recall I have traveled no further out of Coerthas than Dravania—and even that grew infrequent as my knighthood progressed. Ul’Dah was but a singular building for how little time I was permitted there.”

Gwen recognized the subtle shift in topic for what it was: an out. She gladly took it, half from eagerness to shift focus but also because she was deeply curious.

“Leadership needing to be held back to see the whole of the battlefield and all that?” she guessed—it had been the primary tactic she had learned through the Grand Companies. 

At that, Aymeric snorted uncharacteristically. “Not at first. Captains are always on the front line—when you’ve been an archer for the last five years before that promotion, ‘tis quite the adjustment to be your squadron’s first and last line of defense.”

“You weren’t always a swordsman?” Gwen asked, surprised. 

“Of a certainty, I received the training, same as any other knight. ‘Twas not my preference, however.” he admitted. “But it is the weapon of leaders—they are the shield for all to stand behind. They trust that they have led their team such that they need not look behind them to know their back is covered in kind.”

His smile thinned. “As recent events have shown, I have not always had the luxury of the latter.”

“That does not make you a bad leader,” she countered gently.

“It made me a bad leader to them. And when theirs are the blade at your back, their assessment is all that matters.” he parried, his tone as swift and soft as it was tired. “But we have both dwelled over long on such miseries tonight, I should think. Unless you would like to speak of them to let them go—in which case, I shall gladly listen.”

The most wounded corner of Gwen’s heart howled the question of why. Was it born of a kinship he wanted to foster, or out of a need to keep her in his pocket for her abilities? The scar tissue on her heart still ached with the rawness of a bleeding wound.

“You don’t have to.” she said. “Ishgard still needs me whether we’re friends or not.”

Wounds inflicted on Aymeric’s person had drawn out winces and hisses of pain as he had recovered. Before he had even received medical attention, he had refused to acquiese to the pain, to show that he was hurt at all unless the pain overwhelmed him in brief moments of weakness. 

So the expressions that rippled over his face in the immediate moments after the utterance were completely new to Gwen. She had never seen him look truly hurt before that moment. Not in a way that seemed to matter to him. She had not realized he could be that hurt.

“I—” he stumbled for words a moment, teacup nearly dropping from his grasp in his shock before he had to set it down and wiping his hands on his pants legs. “If I have ever given the impression that my concern was aught less than sincere—”

Now well and truly caught in the tangle of emotions that pulled her heartstrings taut, Gwen chose to disentangle this one particular knot in her throat.

“You’ve always been polite and respectful. Beyond reproach, really.” she said slowly, carefully watching his face for reactions to her words to gauge how they landed. “You also haven’t given much of an impression, if I’m being honest—you hold yourself at a distance from everything. Until—until fairly recently, I viewed you as more of my friend’s friend. Colleagues, really, for how much we know of each other.”

Peculiarly, it was Gwen’s turn to feel an unexpected ache in her chest when Aymeric averted his gaze but otherwise looked unsurprised. Like this wasn’t the first time he had been told he was too reclusive before.

She opened her mouth to try and say something even before she had words to grasp at but he held up a hand before she could speak.

“You have the right of it.” he said softly.

It was only then that he looked up at her and continued, “I have been…reticent, in expressing my joy and gladness for the friendships that I have. So it has been for almost as long as I can remember.”

“But why? Surely it wasn’t hard for a charmer like you to make friends—”

“Alas, rumours of my lineage existed for longer than I had the speech to refute them,” Aymeric explained, “and most of the children my age at the time had heard the rumours from their parents long before they had even met me.” 

At that, he paused and angled his head in thought, and haltingly added, “I am…not used to people not knowing that, I suppose.”

“Ishgard isn’t exactly a small city-state,” Gwen blurted in surprise, “was there no one who didn’t know?”

In his lap, his hands twitched. After a moment, he reached for his teacup again.

Half into his tea, he answered, “In all my years living here I have met only two individuals who did not already know of me, and both of them only after I had grown.”

“...Lucia?” she guessed.

Aymeric nodded. “And Estinien,” he added. “I am accustomed to keeping myself…apart from the whole, when not in political social circles. It has kept me safe and let me observe who I might trust. I will not pretend it has made me terribly popular, but it spared me the mockery when I did make the attempt.”

“Why on earth would someone mock you for trying to make friends?” Gwen frowned deeply as she pondered aloud.

“I have come to understand that it was my method that left me open to such japes at my expense: I used to take my pocket money and buy out all the misshapen macaron from the local patisserie, and I would offer them to the children in exchange for letting me play with them.”

There was something sweet about imagine a little boy version of Aymeric toddling over with a box of sweets trying to make friends but knowing how it played out made her heart twist to picture it.

“But why would any kid turn down such a simple offer?” Gwen asked.

Nothing about that made sense to her; knowing how hungry she had been as a child, how she had needed to make do with the taste of flowers in the best of times and refuse in the worst of times, she could not fathom a world where she would turn down such a bargain.

Innocent as the question had been, it still inspired a flinch out of Aymeric before he answered, “Those children in the noble houses turned their noses up at the offer; even those who had not been adequately warned of me thought the offerings unacceptable because they were the discarded macaron that weren’t good enough. The children of the Brume did not believe my offer was so straightforward—many had been told never to trust a noble. Often, I had been accused of trying to buy their favor.” 

After a moment of contemplation, he mused, “In a way, I suppose I was. I had wanted to be friends.”

“That seems cruel.” Gwen said before she could think better on it.

“Children are no more immune to the harshness born from the world’s cruelties than men—merely less restrained in its use but more confined by their own lack of power.” he shrugged. “But so, too, are they capable of unmitigated kindness born of joy that exceeds what they should be capable of. Such is the way of it, where growing minds are concerned.

What I’ve never told anyone—few save Estinien would even know of it—is that I continue to buy out the remaining stock of malformed macaron boxes from that bakery, and I just…forget them, all about the Brume, where the children are most oft seen congregating.”

“Why? You’ve grown now.” Gwen asked, curious.

“And the children of the Brume continue to go hungry.” Aymeric said plainly, shrugging. “Let them keep their pocket money and have something to enjoy to boot—it was a small kindness I could not be accused of heresy for committing, so chose I commit it. Every day.”

“Wouldn’t something useful be a better kindness? Like a blanket or something?” Gwen asked before she could stop herself.

Wincing, she attempted to try and soften the question but he nodded before she could find the words. “Aye, that it would,” he agreed. “Would that doing so would not be taken as a slight against the Church’s inability to provide—which would be paramount to heresy in itself. Although…”

It was only then that Aymeric averted his eyes as he pondered something to himself. After a moment’s debate, he admitted, “I suppose that was but one facet of my reasoning at the time— in a way, I had put some distance between myself and the truth that they are starving. It was easier to believe that it was just a nicety to top off a fed child than to admit that necessities are a luxury for most.”

There was that pesky rain cloud hanging over the room again, just when they had started to lighten the mood. Just when he had started opening up.

“I’m sure they appreciate it, even if they can’t articulate that.” Gwen said before thinking better of it. 

When he looked up, she felt strangely cornered by her own admission, and honesty compelled her to explain, however vaguely, “No one is born the Warrior of Light.”

“Nor the Lord Commander, and yet I did not know such hunger. You need not—”

“Everyone has struggles,” she said, shrugging, “just not always the same ones.”

Gwen held her breath and waited for the pressing. The questions. Fingers fidgeted with the hem of her shirt for want of something to occupy them as she waited.

Her discomfort must have been apparent; Aymeric merely nodded.

“Just so.” he agreed softly.

It was her turn to flinch. “I don’t think you’re doing a bad thing—”

“You need not coddle me over my privilege, my friend. I assure you, the lesson is an important one. I thank you for reminding me of it.” after a moment of consideration, he added, “though I suppose I can afford more than just one thing to forget about the Brume—really, the macarons are very cheap. Blankets were an excellent suggestion!”

“It’s a bit harder to pretend to forget to leave a blanket somewhere, Aymeric.” Gwen said flatly even as she couldn’t help the smile. 

“...Perhaps Hilda can aid in passing blankets out.” he amended sheepishly after a moment of catching himself.

They both dissolved out of laughter, more giddy with relief than humor.

Even as their ruckus died down, her smile turned apologetic. “I wish it had been easier for you to make friends.”

Gwen looked down into her own tea to avoid watching the way his expression clouded again at that.

“Such as it is for many who dwell here. I was not spared that challenge, even if that trial manifested differently for me than others.” 

Aymeric shrugged uncharacteristically. “When someone assumes they know who you are, they never become curious as to whether they are right. Often, I would have to find out after the fact that someone was trying to get close to me in some hope they could avail themselves of some advantage they thought I had. Those friendships would end when they realized that association with me yielded them naught but scorn.”

“Scorn?” Gwen balked, looking back up on reflex in her indignation. 

“In the eyes of many in Ishgard, I am the walking indiscretion of the Archbishop. I am the embodiment of his moment of weakness that had the audacity to continue to live.”

His frown deepened enough to crease the spot between his brows as he added, “Truly, the social ostracization, I could handle—it was lonely, and I am hard pressed for friends in the city that I can rely on in the even of an emergency, but I could handle it, had it only stopped there. But the Inquisitors…”

At that, he trailed off for a moment. In that brief silence Gwen couldn’t help but draw conclusions of her own.

Conclusions he all but confirmed when he finished with a shrug and said, “The Inquisitors would make demons out of the most innocent of souls—and as far as they were concerned, those born of the deepest sin must also bear the sin of their fathers. It was less that people thought associating with me would be gauche and more that they might wind up dead.”

Further elaboration was unnecessary; she saw how thoroughly ruled by fear the populace had become through the wrath of the Inquisitors long before she had ever set foot in the city proper. She was only sorry that he had not been spared from their unwavering gaze.

“You deserved better friends. More of them, too.” she muttered, anger that had already been a banked fire in her chest stoked with this newest agitation.

He seemed mildly surprised at that, regarding her from over the rim of his cup. 

“Everyone deserves true friends. Would that we all had the opportunity to find them,” he said, and after a long moment of hesitation, he added slowly, “and though I have been…quiet, on matters of friendship, I do consider you a dear friend. I have for some time now. Please know that any attempt at closeness on my part is genuine, if fumbling.”

With a sigh, he set his cup down. He waited until he looked back up at her to add, “I will do better. I want to be a better friend to you and others in my life. I have been forcibly reminded of how fragile such things can be.”

“Friends?”

“That, too.”

After a moment of letting the weight of what was not said settle, he refilled their cups again. 

“We should be better friends to each other,” Gwen sighed as she reached for another choice bite of food. “Make the effort to check in more regularly. It’s too easy to lose track of one another in the chaos.”

Aymeric offered her weak but genuine smile with a gesture around the foyer as he said, “I am trying. I promise that I will continue to try.”

“We both will.” she promised him. “It’s a choice, after all. I’m happy to make that choice with you.”

“Friends, then.” he said, and for the first time, she got to see an uncomplicated, beaming smile from him as he did. “And as your friend, I must admit to some curiosity: I know little and less of your time before becoming the Warrior of Light. Might I prevail upon you to indulge in some of my questions?”

When she bristled in a way she couldn’t bite back he held up his hands placatingly and reassured her, “only what you would want to tell me. I only want to know what you want me to know.”

The tension that had begun to build between her shoulders eased, though after a moment to dwell on it, she mused aloud, “I can’t imagine anything personal about me would be interesting.”

“My friend.” Aymeric blanched, visibly putting in effort to keep his expression flat. “I just regaled you with a tale about middling quality confectionaries. You cannot possibly out-bore me.”

At that, Gwen laughed almost too loud for the hour of night. Her chest felt lighter, even if it had not yet healed.

Nothing had been fixed, nor found. Nothing had fully resolved. Ultimately, when the dawn came they would still have their respective tasks to attend to, and an entire realm to balance.

But that was not tonight. Tonight, she began to heal with her friend—with her friend, who she chose to be friends with, to become better friends with.

“I like a challenge!” Gwen said around a cat-like grin beginning to form on her lips.

A grin that Aymeric eagerly met with one of his own. Whatever playful, competitive edge that had compelled her to regale him with a new but safe tale from the road had given way to genuine excitement when she realized that he listened with as much rapt interest as he might when hearing of a great and terrible battle she endured. Somehow, knowing that he wanted to know, well and truly, all the uninteresting parts of her, too made it easier to keep telling him more.

Well into the night, they exchanged stories with one another over a pot of tea and rapidly dwindling finger food. Each story was more mundane than the last, each a new perspective in the lives of one another. Guarded in the shadow of the moon, a friendship was formed in earnest.

[huginsmemory]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love 💞

Omg thank you for the ask!!! 💕 Damn, I don't know which to really choose. I take so long to write anything that I find it hard to judge things; and especially as then years have gone by regarding my posted and finished fanfics it makes me difficult to choose. For fanfics I really have a bunch of fandoms I've periodically cobbled something together (as a result each fic rec is from a different show) and many I haven't read in years; but I've quite enjoyed the chance to go back and actually read them.

#1 - Blackbird series (Trigun (Trimax), Vashwood)

Ahhh this doesn't count as two right? It's my most recent work composed of Blackbird (M, 5.5k) and I'm no pale faced saint (E, 11k) both which I really enjoyed writing. Blackbird is vignettes of Vash and Wolfwoods relationship (if they were lovers) over the course of trimax. I'm no pale faced saint is a story tucked sometime within the same au when Wolfwoods and Vash are travelling, and during their stop Wolfwoods is asked to perform a funeral; later the two of them talk about promises in amongst foreshadowing of what will later occur and sexy times. It was also the first time I forayed into writing explicit fanfic which was certainly interesting and perhaps fun? Still not sure haha. Both are pretty bittersweet. Technically it's supposed to be a triptych, with a third and final installation which I've... not finished writing. Fingers crossed I'll get around to having some time to finish it eventually... It's all planned out so I just need to sit down and write the damned thing.

#2 - Tracing Ink on Skin (JJK, Satosugu, M, 34k)

A yakuza au fic that I'm still working on, that I originally started because there was none of those fics when the first season had come out. The premise is they were schoolmates, and lose touch after, Satoru the next in line for the head of one of the big Yakuza families, only to be reunited when Suguru finds Satoru bleeding out on his doorstep. I'm reccing it cause it's a bit newer. It's also my first long fic which is exciting but also haunts me a bit since it's also definitely not a priority, since I keep neglecting to write new chapters... shoves my 10 newer WIP fanfics into the drawer guiltily. Again I've got the whole thing planned out, I just need to actually write it. Also part of me wants to rewrite some areas, ack!

#3 - Chain Restaurants and the Beginnings of Friendship (Dorohedoro, Risu x Aikawa, T, 3.5k)

Also in the scheme of things newer... Premise is the two of them go for lunch right after Aikawa kills the teacher. I like this one with it's fun twist and actually intended it as a part of a series of short vignettes, as I had more ideas... as you can see I'm great at finishing things. I've heard there's supposed to be a second season of Dorohedoro coming out which might help kick me back into the mood. I really should trawl through my WIP files...

#4 - Warm Lights on Sleepless Nights. (Golden Kamuy, SugumotoxOgata, G, 3k)

Premise is it's a vignette of a modern au of Sugumoto essentially waking up from a nightmare, and remembering the time that Ogata was also awake at the same time before his betrayal, and the possible implications of that.

#5 - Antiform Haunting (Gotham, Edward Nygma x Oswald Cobblepot, T, 3k)

Premise is on some unseen scenes after Ed betrays Oswald, and dreams of him, leading up to the scene where Ed hallucinates Ed. I liked this one better then the other, softer fic I had written on the pair, which more people seemed to have enjoyed; how funny.

I'm ignoring how clearly all the pairs I write for are tragic character relationships (or perceived relationships lol) here. Nope, I don't know what you're talking about, I totally am not addicted to bittersweet or sad writing.

[dandelion-bride]

A Little Wicked - chapter 10

Dark Necessities

chapter length 4.6k || total length 55K || explicit [Smut/Kink/Violence/NC] || Astarion/Tav - Enver Gortash/Tav - The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

the first betrayal. deals with deities. hope and despair, sisters entwined.

snippet under the cut:

The light fades, and his surroundings appear. He inspects himself first. His clothes are gone, a dingy gray robe in its place. When he moves his arm, the shadows shift and flow, darkness clinging to what he perceives as a white robe underneath. The Black Lord's condemnation made visually perceptive but not interfering with his engagement of the environment.

A poignant device, Enver observes, his mood rapidly souring as he clocks the situation. He is the penitent here. The one who needs cleansing.

He is barefoot on moss in a small clearing in the woods. He faces east, and there is a trail heading up a gentle incline in that direction, towards the dawn. Different bird songs tickle his city-boy ears like wire brushes. But at least those are noises - in between, there is nothing but stillness. No pulsing of the illithid flesh, no music and gentle conversation, no "all's well" cried, and the noises of tens of thousands of people existing around him. There is nothing but unsettling quiet.

Here Lathander was, making an offering to him. Perhaps it was Hope's influence as his follower that caused the Morninglord to turn his eye. He curses himself again for losing his tongue in her presence, for how the weakness of his youth needled into his spine; how weak he had been before he met his Lord.

He grimaces - that same Lord is trying to consume his physical body and possibly soul, even as he thinks. Had Bane always planned for this, to take control of the Netherbrain through puppeting Enver’s body as an avatar? A brilliant plan that allowed the deity to avoid issues attempting mental communication with the illithid. He should have seen it coming, given the fates he condemned so many others to. Hells, it was something he’d been afraid aware of the dangers of.

He casts his mind back to a disturbing moment. He had heard Hope in that moment before he took the mace. Zefira sounded familiar, but her tone was frantic, and Hope's pleading. Why had the two memories connected?

I told myself to remember, he answers himself, a nasty grin spreading over messy gapped teeth in his mind. That was me. I told myself to hold onto that, then I used the memory to remind myself. A rather good ploy - perhaps I'll need to reward myself for it.

He wipes the side of his mouth with his thumbpad, and he walks forward. Always walk forward.

[wynterlanding]

COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS

Landon is just some sweet naïve person. Sure he’s the sort of friend and loyal partner that most would like but he’s not naïve. He’s not just some goody two shoes who can’t handle himself. Nor is he weak by any means. Certain people mistake him for a sunny disposition sort only. There’s way more to him than this. He’s been through a lot in the past so he tends to overreact. An absolute fault in him but that doesn’t make him a pessimist. There’s a great optimism in him but don’t mistake it for him letting people walk on him. Landon actually will not take bullshit from people. The man is a ride or die, loyal to a fault but he can hold his own. He is pretty stubborn in reality.

AN IMPORTANT HEADCANON

While in college Landon went through a terrible break up on account of his girlfriend cheating on him. This had an effect on his confidence, which already had some dents in it from childhood. This shapes his views on relationships to this day and despite this he is a romantic at heart, looking for someone who genuinely shares feelings and chooses him first. He’s all in or nothing and doesn’t do well with people giving him mixed signals.   

A USELESS HEADCANON

 He has an addiction to all things chocolate including his penchant to indulge in mocha lattes. Honestly the man eats too much chocolate but at least his enjoyment of cycling and running keeps him fit enough.

POTENTIAL TRIGGERS

Landon is personally triggered by: dolls – he suffers from pediophobia; cheating & toxicity. The toxicity is mainly from a partner. He will not start up a relationship or stay with someone who is toxic towards him because he already went through that. It’s a no from him.

Other triggers that may appear here due to background and themes: abuse mentions (especially in the film boi universe from his h.eard like bitch ex), gaslighting, and horror plots of all kinds mainly.

SOMETHING YOU ENJOY ABOUT (WRITING) THEM

Honestly I enjoy delving into all the variants of his personality in his varying verses. You could say I just enjoy writing Landon in general as he’s one of my most fully developed muses in a while. He has a lot of extended family and an entire family tree with a whole connection to an ancestor named Bartholomew Wynter, which is where he gets his middle name. He has personal universes with family created with boos on my affiliates. I love writing about how he perceives events and people around him. aka we stan a boy who overreacts to everything. He truly has a way about him where stubbornness and rambling is concerned. He can get a temper on him if someone has done something he deems a betrayal. Man is the most loyal so writing him absolutely pissed off when his trust is broken is a chef’s kiss baby.

SOMETHING YOU WANT OTHERS TO KNOW BEFORE WRITING WITH THEM

Landon will never involve himself in cheating or love triangle plots. It goes against his character and he will never be okay with this. They’re part of his triggers. He will not take any abuse from people without reacting accordingly. He also isn’t going to pursue or stay in any relationships with people who act like they’re not interested or become toxic. A stickler for the law, Landon will drop anyone like it’s hot who murders or maims someone. hashsdf It’s safe to say he’s morally good in that respect.

tagged: @myriadxofxmuses thnx boo babe <3 tagging: @awalkoflife @depictedmorada @diivinerose @frigid-vitality @godccmplex @hostilidadesveladas @itsalltoobeautiful @itsagraywcrld @kit-just-kit @lavishbylaw @laviexenrose @lcnelyday @xlostparadise @marvelgirltm @mutatedangels @pctentialbreakupsong @queenxfthedxmned @smolcuriouskitten @sirxnx @stvrlyte @technopathicredhead @thewolfruns @velvetnviolentviolets @xwildheart @worthless-weight-in-gold

[bitterbelphie]

{{ these are some notes for myself mostly dont mind them fjdjfj

that said, i am still alive! blogs not dead i am just throttled irl but i am out here. i am out here. im just very overwhelmed. i am thinking about belphie but have bumbled my goofy ass into some writing issues i want to put down somewhere that wont get lost fjdj so. so. }}

point one;

belphie is one of the most socially involved characters i've ever had in my hands wherein his relationships are so close and impactful on him, and that's considerable! he doesnt know or deal with a billion people all at the same time, but he DOES live with six brothers and a human, and has to worry about others (two angels, one other human, two other Very Big Deal demons) at least occasionally. i have an understanding why the writing team sometimes feels really very rushed the further they go on with obey me im going to be real with you NGJSJF

again, it isn't just the number or proximity; belphies brothers are really very impactful on him, not just in past tense but in the ways they interact with each other, the ways they bicker or support each other or even the human, how belphie perceives these things. he's a more introverted character, but just as he's notorious for his introversion (sometimes levi calls him a fellow shut-in, and hes declined outings several times unless they suited his own needs and interests specifically [before being forced anyway usually]) he's also notorious for watching and listening to the ways the others talk about what's going on, each other, TO each other, how their bonds strengthen or weaken. he's very sensitive to being replaced or forgotten about, or treated as though he's dangerous or like someone doesn't know how to interact with him anymore after the attic incident.

all this to say, to write a rich and satisfying belphie, takes shaking off a lot more rust and getting used to writing several characters in a situation all at the sams time, which i've for some reason been very squirrely to do??? like i'm not allowed or something???? up to the challenge, if only for breaking this very strange sensation of 'oh thats not allowed ):' ON WHAT PLANET. WHEN AND WHY DID THAT HAPPEN

point two;

winter.... oh winter. precious MC stand in. what am i going to do with you.

obviously the mc in a romancey otome game is supposed to move the story along in a way that's as generic and projectable as possible. there's still some personality there; a character that drives an entire family of fallen angels who've had repeated fallings out and coming together again moments and unites them is going to be a sort that's strong in mind and in heart, sure. this is a protagonist in a mushy gushy love game with some edge paint slapped over the top; something i love quite a bit, mind you, but... there's so much blank slate, and so much freedom.

what. am i going to do with you. somehow i did not anticipate The Main Character being something so potentially useful, but also requiring their own good bit of attention. so i should think about where they've been yoinked from and how that helps them adapt to the environment they're in. the mc also has quite the unique relationship with belphie, given the whole murder thing, and subsequent "oh btw the entire reason you did that? built on a lie. yeah everything you justified that with wasn't real. yeah now you both have to cope with that. and each other. yeah."

so winter being a big deal is sort of a big deal in itself. they both have made huge impacts on each other, and belphie's forfeited to them some of his JUST-FOUND FREEDOM to START his apology and that's. i mean god damn. winter knows he'd been trapped a long time, winter knows he'd been lied to, but that his feelings of neglect and betrayal aren't gone... but that also doesn't mean they're just fine now, either. he murdered their ass and he tried to do it again until he was told the truth and broke down as it sunk in fjdj not even immediately.

they have a lot of questions for one another, but also a lot of tension. delicious mix. how much i would love to really do something with that.

very good to get this out of my brain and somewhere i'll find it again fjdjgj

maybe ill noodle around with this??? try to practice some things and lean into that early canon feel i liked so much and base some things off canon events. augh please understand how much this sleepy freak lives rent free in my brain space even though i am so so quiet. trying to get unfrozen in so many ways

[morphlingunderscore]

pointing at you. mask, scissors, pistol, wrench for oc asks foooooor rassel (of course) and one guy of choice

Ooooh fun selection crow :3

🎭 MASKS - do they act differently around certain people? what's different between the way they act around friends, family, strangers, etc.?

Rassel: Very much so! Rassel has many facets, though they went a while where "strangers" was a factor they really didn't have to account for. Around friends and family (interchangeable), Rassel is a pretty goofy guy, if Intense. What they feel, they can't not express if they have even the slightest social safety net. They hum a lot when they're comfortable, and feel more than happy to break into song at Dec's slightest provocation. Lately, things are a little different, but they'll figure it out again.

Around strangers, Rassel tries to be... Like, the perfect stranger, if that makes sense? They try to be nice, or at least civil, but they keep their distance. Even if they can't hold in their Eccentricities entirely, they kind of strive to be forgettable. They aren't interested in making new friends. (Or, at least not without forced interaction, like a feral cat through a closed door.)

Brian: (Of course I choose Brian. Cmon.) Brian used to act differently around different people, to the point that some folks might ask "Are you sure we're talking about the same Brian?" It wasn't really intentional, she was just a social chameleon type. Made things easier.

Now, though? Who gives a single shit. If you don't like her as is, die mad. Rassel hasn't found a way to bind her to a rock and throw her in the void yet, anyway, so she's probably fine.

✂️ SCISSORS - what is the "last straw" for them to cut someone out of their life? how easily do they let go of people?

Rassel: Eugh boy. I don't... Think they have one? Like, even at their worst, when they hated 10 completely for the sacrifices and what he did to Dec, and barely had any happy, pleasant memories of the guy to give them a reason... They didn't really let him go, did they? They stayed in his orbit. I mean, it was hard not to with the quad As They Were, but... I don't know.

I don't think they really can let people go. Even if that person is for all intents and purposes gone, dead, whatever, I think they'd still carry them. Call it loyalty or clinginess or whatever you think. You can't get rid of them, and they can't get rid of you.

Brian: Perceived betrayal or someone entirely outliving their usefulness. Even before Brian was lost in her obsession with breaking open the world like a kinder surprise, she was a bit ruthless when it came to casual relationships. Close ones, though, that's tougher. That would take something big, like ripping off all her work and claiming it as your own, or killing her in her sleep instead of in the streets like a rabid, sick dog. To give some entirely unloaded examples.

Rassel is a special case, for her. In a very literal sense, cutting ties with Rassel would kill her for good, or at the very least strand her somewhere she knows nothing about. Rassel could get away with a lot more than they probably realize.

🔫 PISTOL - do they trust people easily? how easily will they turn their back to someone? have they been backstabbed before? will they betray someone if given an ultimatum?

Rassel: Very, as much as they may say otherwise. A bright-eyed amnesiac, Rassel latched onto all of their forgotten friends with very little prompting, and even some new ones. Even if there was some Baggage, and even if you claimed that was subconscious trust, they did try to rig a presidential election for someone that they (in their mind) met like, a month or two ago. They're an octopus. It's part of why they try to stay clear of new people; they don't need the grief.

Not easily, for turning their back on someone. I mean, they turned around for "10", and they thought he just had a concussion or something. And they have been backstabbed, literally, by a blue-haired braided girl, as well as figuratively (though accidentally) by Brian. As for betrayal... Hm.

If given an ultimatum with a heavy enough weight, Rassel would, yes. But that weight couldn't be their own life. That's not worth betraying a friend, never.

Brian: Lmao, no. Brian only really trusts Rassel because she can literally get a sense on Rassel emotions almost 24/7. She can care for or like someone and not trust them a lick. It's pretty much how she operates. She'll turn her back on pretty much anyone if it means saving her own hide and protecting her Goal to enlighten the world. Key words being pretty much; there are a few folks in her past she refused to let go, to the bitter end.

She's been backstabbed quite a lot, academically, and then Quite Literally. Though she claims her death was this, the intent was born of fear for her, not of her. For what she might face, after all she did. That it would be worse than death. That she didn't deserve it, even if she killed someone, risked the whole city's lives several times over.

Brian will betray anyone if you can sell it well enough. You just have to speak her language.

🔧 WRENCH - are they good at fixing relationships? or do they tend to avoid doing so?

Rassel: Mm, tricky question. I'd say that they're... decent at it, for a few reasons. They did try to improve themselves to fix their relationship with the quad (specifically Echo and Dec), and they did actually make progress! They found a way to cope with their anger issues, they stopped attempting to hurt 10 when he was near, they even held a somewhat civil conversation with 5 when they thought he was 10!

But... They're also not great at other aspects. Mending bridges after a long time away seems like an impossible feat. Everyone has grown, and they feel like they've only gotten smaller. They don't know where to stand in the picture frame.

So... Decent. They'll get there. But they always, always want to try.

Brian: I think she could be, if she felt it was fixable. I think she's very much the type to say fuck it, that bridge is burned, mourn it later. Practical, if not very reasonable. She can be very determined if a goal seems plausible, but it's far more likely that she'll decide it isn't worth the grief to try to make amends. As is, she definitely avoids trying.

Even with Rassel now, she never says sorry first. If Rassel doesn't say it, it doesn't get said. She'd rather stew than admit there's something to fix, that it's anything that can be fixed.

[purplebowties]

Hi, chair ask! What're your thoughts on the whole Blair and Jack thing? Just the "Love triangle" and incident before his redemption

Hi! Thank you so much for the interesting question!

So, I’m gonna start by saying that my feelings and thoughts about Jack are very ambivalent. Much like Chuck, I have a love/hate relationship with the character.

I know many people in the fandom think of Blair having sex with Jack in season 2 an out of character thing happened for shock value. Though I can see where they’re coming from, I don’t necessarily agree. I think Blair was in a very dark and vulnerable place when it happened, and I can see her doing it out of sheer desperation, and Jack taking advantage of it.

There’s no actual canonical explanation as for why Jack was so jealous of his nephew and so adamant to take everything that was “his” away from him (I’m clearly not referring to Blair as property because I think of her in these terms, but because Jack does), but it’s a factor that played a part in their relationship for a long time. I’m gonna take a not so wild guess here and assume that Bart treated him horribly and that Jack took it out Chuck as soon as he got the chance. Upon meeting Blair, which happened offscreen, Jack, who’s tremendously smart, must have understood the depth of the feeling that connected Chuck and Blair. I’m not sure he had any actual agenda when their sexual encounter happened, as Bart’s will had not been revealed, but the thrill of getting so close to the person Chuck loved must have been irresistible to him and reason enough to do it.

As for Blair, I believe she was out of her mind with worry, as she is always so in tune with Chuck that she must have known he was self-destructive and borderline suicidal. Jack must have offered her comfort in this sense, promising her he would find Chuck and take him home, which was the only thing Blair wanted at that point: for Chuck to be home and safe. Jack must have also painfully reminded her of Chuck - they are, after all, so similar in many ways. I don’t think it was something that was meant to “make sense”: it was likely a moment of weakness and disorientation for Blair, and she is far from being immune to making irrational decisions in emotionally charged situations. A part of Blair might have even done it because she was furious at Chuck, not just for leaving her and not saying “I love you” back per se, but mostly because of what he was doing to himself and his refusal to let her help him. A complex and hurtful mess of contrasting emotions led Blair to have sex with Jack.

Coming to season 3, it is obvious from the way Chuck looks at Blair and Jack speaking in 3X15 that he’s not really over what happened between them and perceived it as a betrayal from Blair. It is part of the many, intricate reasons behind the lack of communication that leads to the hotel incident and everything that came after that. Jack knows too, obviously, and this is why he uses Blair as a pawn in his game - eventually, he just wants Chuck to lose what’s most important to him, and that’s Blair.

I must stress how Chuck’s judgement at the point he makes the unfortunate decision to agree on Jack’s deal was clouded by immeasurable stress and deep trauma: in a way, he extended what he felt towards Elizabeth’s betrayal to Blair, and tested her loyalty (much like he did with his mother, “Writing the check was just a test, but I wanted her to pass, not fail. As soon as I handed it to her, I didn’t want her to take it.”) Both Blair and Elizabeth were involved with Jack and both accepted to scheme with him and betrayed Chuck’s trust (Blair out of love, Elizabeth out of cowardice). There are several factors under the surface of Chuck’s choices at that point of the story, complicated and contradictory, not least the fact that he was going through a depressive and self-destructive episode, but this is one of them.

(If you’re interested, I attached a post I wrote ages ago about 3X17)

I’m sorry, this was exceptionally long and I probably digressed here and there. At the end of the day, I like that Chuck and Jack rebuilt their relationship, and satisfied with the fact that Blair is okay with it. By the time their stories end, the three of them are completely over all that was mentioned above. They are people who did, do and would do horrible things for the right reasons (when it comes to Chuck and Blair, no longer to each other or their loved ones, but to the outside world) and I think this is something they fundamentally understand about each other.