#and the sword is solid but it cauterizes instantly

[clockswatches]

I had a vision but I technically can't draw so this is what you get

[azure7539arts]

Beacon

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Blaze + Reverse a common trope

Warning: Angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, possession, idiots

Summary: One day, perhaps people will forget that a Flame Alchemist has ever existed, but the same can never be said of his subordinates. And today is not that day anyway.

Or: 00Q but Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood AU

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble… And here we are. Again. If you find this intro familiar, thanks for reading Sword! If you have no idea what Sword is and just know my penchant for biting off more than I can chew, please refer to my previous post. Thanks!

Also, look, @solarmorrigan​, pyrokinesis! And @opalescentgold​, because you know the fandom and may appreciate some references. Damn, I have been dying for a FMA AU for. so. long. And now I’ve managed to somehow realize it into fruition. Jeez. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!

-

Q couldn’t stand. The rush of adrenaline and sheer agony were urging his heart into overdrive, as if in beating a punishing pace right then, it would somehow make up for the gaping hole wedged in his side.

He bit back a sharp cry, alchemy flaring as bright as the pulsing pain invading his system. In what was either an eternity or no time at all, the wound was cauterized in a fit of smoke and sizzling burnt flesh, effectively staunching the intolerable amount of blood loss in a matter of seconds. His head spun.

(For as long as he’d lived, Q had wished for a lot of things. Right then, though, there was only one thought that kept repeating itself in the confines of his mind—)

Footsteps were approaching. Q scrambled to get to his feet with whatever remaining strength he had left and snapped his fingers again. Vicious ropes of flames sprang forth like spiteful cobras, eliciting an intense wall of fire that stood guard between him and his would-be captor.

One steel arm shot out from among the blaze and seized him by the throat.

Q choked.

The rest of that body stepped through quickly enough, like an emerging monster materializing from the depths of hellfire.

“Ultimate shield, remember?”

Q clawed uselessly at the still squeezing hand around his throat. “L–Lieutenant—” he wheezed, bitter reluctance warring with his struggling will to survive. “Bond—”

“Hm?” The steel receded, and Bond looked back at him now, head tilting to the side. “What, the old owner of this body?” He tutted, visibly frustrated despite the good humor gleaming in those too sharp eyes. “I told you: He’s gone—he’s become one with the stone. I’m the one in charge now, and the name is Greed.”

He grinned, and Q’s guts twisted at the sight, eyes watering from the lack of oxygen. (He could still hear the sound of Bond’s screams piercing all the way down the long corridors. The way his body had writhed and bucked in violent pain as it died and regenerated again and again, rejecting the philosopher’s stone that had been wrongfully injected into it. The way he had suddenly gone lax while Q had done his best to burn through the literal living wall of obstacles out of existence to get to him.)

He gathered all his strength to curl up his legs and kick Bond in the stomach.

No, not Bond. (But that was still his face.)

Not anymore. (Still his eyes, his voice, the low gravel of his laughter, chest-deep and oh so warm.)

Just Greed.

(What if he was still in there?)

The momentum of that kick thrusted Q out of the vice-like grip as he landed onto the ground with a dull thud. A twang of stabbing pain in his side knocked the air out of his lungs, distracting him from the stings of having steel claws dug long strips into either side of his throat.

(The thing was that: if he really was still in there…)

“Damn it,” Bond—Greed—hissed, staggering back before steadying himself with an annoyed huff of breath.

Like this, Q recognized that whoever was in front of him then, despite appearing and sounding exactly like him, didn’t have the firm stance that Bond had always maintained, edged into his bones from all the arduous training he’d put himself through.

The red Ouroboros tattoo on the back of his left hand seared into Q’s vision like a brand, as though sealing a death sentence.

(... If he really was still in there, Bond wouldn’t have willingly punched a hole straight through Q.)

Once the thought sank in, Q’s stomach plummeted.

“Could you stop being such a nuisance?” Greed clicked his tongue.

When he tried to reach out again, molten fire engulfed the room at another snap of the fingers.

And in the roaring flames, Q screamed.

-

He wakes with a startled gasp, cold sweat breaking all over.

It takes a moment, but the familiar ceiling of his office finally shifts into focus once more, and Q lets out a shuddered sigh. The documents he was looking at lie strewn across the littered desk surface right where he left them, and at this very moment, the phone rings, shattering the disquiet that has settled over his foggy mind.

He doesn’t notice the long overcoat that’s, apparently, been laid over his person while he slept until he reaches over to make a grab for the handset. It slides down from over his shoulders and pools in the middle of his lap with a rustling of fabric.

Q purses his lips and picks up, free hand settling over his now healed side to ease the aching phantom pain.

“Yes.”

“Brigadier General, sir,” the operator greets. “Major General Moneypenny is on the line for you.”

“Put her through.”

The line clicks after a final ‘yes, sir,’ and instantly, Eve’s voice filters through from the other side. “Why am I not surprised that you’re still there despite the atrocious hours.” It isn’t a question, and he smiles.

“Hypocrite,” he replies without heat, thumb smoothing along the raised ridges of those scars that he can still feel even through the thick layers of his uniform. “How has Briggs been welcoming you back?”

“Oh, you know, the usual warmth and sunshine,” she says, a joking lilt to her tone, and Q winces just from imagining the howling gales of a normal Briggs snowstorm that must be sweeping through the barracks even as they speak. “Now, enough of your diversion scheme. How are things on your side?”

Q thinks he’s too tired to do much of anything else and chooses the easy way out. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Eve hums, entirely unconvinced, but doesn’t point out that his answer isn’t all that she asked. She knows him too well by now to press. “Sometimes, though, I do wonder if you should’ve just retired and gone to Rush Valley to do whatever it is that you automail enthusiasts do.”

The sentiment sends a soft snort through his nose. Not that he doesn’t wish to be a simple automail mechanic from time to time, especially when the price paid doesn’t seem equivalent to subsequent results, but in life, simple wants and actual needs are two different things.

They’ve all learnt this the hard way.

Even so, Q appreciates Eve looking out for him. Thousands of miles away, she’s still one of the few people who truly know and understand him. One of the few whom he trusts with his life. “Oh, definitely—once I find someone suitable to man the post for me, that is,” he muses, only half-serious. “No promises otherwise.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Sir.”

“Come in,” he calls and straightens up, popping the crick in his neck. “Gotta go now. Send my regards to Captain Tanner, would you? God knows the length that man’s gone to to keep up with you.”

Eve laughs, and he smiles, too, just as Bond walks in and closes the door behind him.

(There’s no Ouroboros tattoo on his hand, Q notes and subconsciously relaxes.)

(He shouldn’t feel bad for it—but he does anyway. Just the same as Bond, who didn’t mean to lose control long enough for Greed to hurt Q the way he did.

Emotions are fickle things.)

Eve has gone quiet for a long second as well, probably considering her words. In a way, Q feels he already knows what they are going to be, and grim satisfaction paints his tongue when what she says next is precisely just that, “How’s First Lieutenant Bond?”

How are things between you two, goes unsaid, but he hears it loud and clear nonetheless.

Bond is patiently waiting for him—hands tucked behind his back, perfect military posture, too proper and formal to bear—and Q squeezes the coat that remains in his lap.

(He misses the casual dynamics, easy tandem they used to have. One not laden with guilt and second-guessing.

It’s just one more hurdle for them to work through, he supposes.

Together.)

“We’re… getting there,” he replies, mildly surprised by his own honesty. “Talk to you later. Goodbye, Major General.”

He hangs up, and Bond has gotten closer, despite maintaining a minimum distance of three steps.

Q crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits, eyes expectant.

Eventually, Bond can’t but break the silence. “Was that Major General Moneypenny, sir?”

Q suppresses a sigh and nods. “Yes. Just one of her usual check-ins.” He pauses. “She did ask about you, about us, and how we were doing. And I said we were getting there—you heard.”

When Bond doesn’t reply, Q narrows his eyes, shrewd. “So, are we, Lieutenant? Getting there?” Most likely, he’s coming off much harsher than he originally planned, but Q doesn’t give a damn about that. Not right now. “You said you were following me to the top. Is this how you intend on doing it? By pretending to be a good little model soldier while keeping me at arm’s length?”

At this, Bond seems to further straighten, if that’s still physically possible. There’s steel in his eyes, but not the lost, abandoned kind given into avarice like that of Greed.

It’s all just sheer solid nerve and hardened integrity. It’s all Bond and so much more.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect and help you reach your goal—”

“Don’t you get it? You can’t protect me for damn if you’re always three steps away from me! That only means we’re no longer the team you seem to think we are.” Q’s mouth twists into a snarl. “Do you understand what I’m getting at, Bond?”

Bond turns his head away, staring out into the endless expanse of the night through the large panel of Q’s windows. Bond has never liked them, these ‘uselessly big windows that Central Command seems to prefer for their offices.’ Makes his job harder than it already is, he said.

Q tears himself away from the sudden memory.

“My only mission is to protect you,” Bond grinds out, hands that have fallen to his sides clenching into fists.

“And you have not failed.” Q’s voice has somewhat softened as he stands and clears his throat. “What happened, back then. It just means that we need to update our measures of counterattacks.”

They stare at each other now, mutual challenge shining in their eyes like a beacon to safety in the middle of a raging storm.

(“Q. I’m sorry.” Bond said, desperation ripping his voice raw and vulnerable. Q had never heard him like this. “I–I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.”

“James, there’s nothing to forgive.”)

“We can discuss that tomorrow, then.” Bond bends down to pick up Q’s coat from the floor and gives it a few perfunctory pats before handing it back over, a tentative smirk on his lips. “Are you ready to go home for the night, sir?”

Q scoffs and takes it, not hiding his own smile. “Just about.”

It’s a long road ahead, but they’re getting there all right.

-

-

Bonus art:

[corisanna]

Reposting an ask because Tumblr broke it and won’t let me edit.

Hmmmmmmmmmm.

I do think it declined, but not to the extent that it definitely should have ended after Aizen. That would have been a neat/clean ending, yeah, but the rest was salvageable imo. It was a matter of narrative choices. And I sympathize with Kubo for part of why they probably happened.

My thoughts on the later part of the Bleach manga always starts with thoughts on the IRL situation the author dealt with. That is always crucial to the product they put out and I do not want this to be a criticism of Kubo himself. So this will be in two parts. Also, it’s been awhile since I read the manga.

Author

The first thing to keep in mind is that Kubo continued (was pressured?) to keep writing despite multiple bouts of pneumonia or other illness with only short breaks. I remember the unexpected hiatuses of weeks or I think even a couple months at one point as chapters came out. It was like eight years ago, though. I’m having trouble finding undeleted sources about them. Example of one I found:

---

---

I write trash when I’m very sick. If I do write while sick, I do not share it until I can edit it while well. I got the impression at the time that Kubo was not afforded that opportunity. And I’ve only read parts of one of the after-manga novel Can’t Fear Your Own World, but it seems to me that he had a lot of the underpinnings to strengthen the story in his head and couldn’t get them out earlier. It’s what happens to me when sick, anyway. And also if I’m having general burnout.

A second problem is the pressure of deadlines. You know how fanfic authors often have irregular periods of time between posting because they have had interference from Real Life or they have writer’s block or they just aren’t happy with what they’ve written yet? That is a luxury of not being paid/contracted to write. Being able to tinker and tinker and tinker until you’re at least satisfied with what you’ve created is a luxury in serial writing. I’m currently sitting on a “complete” chapter of my fic in case I need to hop back and tweak it based on what the next chapter does because it’s an important point in the plot and I don’t want to break continuity. And I really am jumping back to change things. A couple years ago, I sat on like three complete chapters for similar reasons. Manga writers with deadlines do not have that luxury. If I had biweekly deadlines, I’d be posting continuity-breaking trash with terrible dialogue.  Hell, back in November I replaced every chapter of my big 400k word fic  with edited versions that strengthened character development and plot  underpinnings.    “Idk idk let’s throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks” is something both fic and manga writers do, but manga authors with tight deadlines don’t get to double back and pick stuff out.  

So. That said, here are my total amateur, in-no-way-an-authority, just-what-I-would-do-in-fanfiction  thoughts on the story:

Story

Ichigo in denial of struggling with powerlessness while trying to move on was good. Xcution was interesting, though it could have used more explanation that apparently came out in a novel after the end of the series. I think we should have heard more about Xcution’s motives in-story and how Ginjo became a substitute shinigami. Just... a more solid framework.

TYBW was a mess. It’s been awhile since I read it, though, so my memory of a lot of fights is blurry. IIRC, one of the problems was good guys explaining their damn powers to the enemy instead of having them do an internal monologue for the readers. Too many enemies were given ridiculous powers that required deus ex machina to defeat or had missed opportunities to be resolved otherwise with use of other characters.

Take Giselle for example. Once she took control of Toshiro, that could have opened up a horrified rage for Momo, who grew up with him. Giselle’s power of spilling her blood on someone leading to body puppetry made cutting her with a sword a Very Bad Idea. But Momo’s zanpakuto had been shown as having fire powers that she could integrate with kido. She could have fought Giselle without spilling her blood or cut her with her shikai, sword wreathed in flame to instantly cauterize the wounds and avoid spilling blood. That might also prevent Giselle from reassembling herself. This could be after or during fighting Toshiro. The whole battle would invert the protective fury dynamic between Toshiro and Momo and be an opportunity to show Momo’s post-Aizen growth, especially if she was double-teaming with her new captain. Perhaps Shinji could keep zombie!Toshiro occupied with his disorienting shikai on top of sword fighting so Momo could use her fire on Giselle. It also could have drawn minor attention to the two shinigami who had grown up together somehow getting opposing powers-- fire and ice-- and having to fight each other. Something could have been made of that. It was a missed opportunity for character development and showing another female character be strong instead of implying it.

The Soul King and YWCH stuff was a confusing mess to me. Too much wasn’t explained. As I said, it has been awhile, but I remember being in a state of “LOL idk what is happening here” for most King’s Realm chapters. It probably didn’t help that I read it as it came out, with weeks in between chapters. I should re-read it. Or just watch the upcoming anime and hope for clarification.

I think it suffered from what I struggle with sometimes: thinking that because I have been thinking about and planning something intensely, I already wrote it. I just had to make two connected edits to my already-posted fic chapters this past week because I discovered I had left out a key line of dialogue when I went back to quote it and it wasn’t there. But once a chapter of manga is published, it’s hard to take it back. Maybe in the collected volume-- I know of at least one manga that redrew several objects that the artist broke continuity with-- but a lot of people only read it as it comes out.

In conclusion: The basis for a strong, compelling continuation post-Aizen was there, but suffered from external problems like illness and deadlines. IMO it just needs some tinkering to clean it up.

[take-the-page]

Alight (5/?)

A pot of water could have boiled in the heat that wrapped deadly arms around Nesta as she again took her stance facing Azriel in the clearing below her room’s window. Rivulets of sweat ran beneath her armor, licking her spine with discomfort, as they had for a solid eight hours of torture disguised as training.

The sun stood at full-mast in the cloudless sky, reflecting off their borrowed weapons with blinding awareness. Outward, inward, everything burned bright.

Azriel, Nesta noticed begrudgingly, paced unfazed by the stifling humidity. Maybe the Illyrians really didn’t experience the light of day very often, learning to soak it in before rain made everything miserable again.

Glancing to where Elain bent to pluck a single flower that had survived the feet of a thousand men, Nesta noticed Azriel’s shadow retract for the faintest moment before he resumed his circling, tapping the end of his short sword to her’s.

Interesting.

His brow furrowed at whatever thought her face revealed. She didn’t worry about anyone probing her mind today; she had turned the knob until it broke off, cauterizing the gap when she was done.

Pointing with his sword at the top of her head, he said, “Blindfold on, now.”

Still fuming over Cassian’s blatant dismissal, she’d found solace in the fact that she wasn’t the only one who was forced out of the meeting with the Council. Chances were that Azriel didn’t want to spend his day with her, and the feeling was wholeheartedly reciprocated. But she didn’t let him see that – not when he’d become a sort of friend and ally to her sister.

Reaching up to tug on the scarf circling her hairline, she lay it over her eyes and tied it tight at the nape of her neck. Stubbornness had prevented her from tying her hair until that moment. It was either suffer her ideals, or risk her hair being permanently glued to her neck and arms. Quickly plaiting it, she tossed it over her shoulder. Daydreaming briefly of a cool pond manifesting beside her, she muttered, “I still don’t see the point in doing this.”

“Part of being a warrior,” he said, closer this time. Behind? In front? She turned in circles, trying to find the root of his voice. “Is being aware of your enemy at all times. You have to feel their intentions, anticipate their attack.”

The sword in her hand vibrated with a tap near the base. She swung wide, breathing hard.

“You have to learn to live in the black… eyes can lie. Your intuition never will.” He swung again, this time stopping just as the blade grazed her cheek.

Nesta lifted a hand to her cheek, feeling for blood. Nothing, but perspiration.

A calloused hand gripped her own. No, not callouses… scars. He withdrew instantly. “Position yourself like I taught you. Stop thinking, feel my approach.”

Repositioning, she gripped the hilt with renewed energy. This time not afraid or angry, but exhilarated. One deep breath in, she held it in her lungs, willing her body to quiet. For a moment, the electrified current coursing through her body flickered out.

A shell. Only a mind. Casting a net of awareness outward, she heard the faint scuffle of rock under boot as Azriel adjusted his bearings. Leather on leather. Hair grazing armor. His final intake of breath before striking.

There.

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