#but he's also frightfully self-aware at times

[notmoreflippingelves]

Esteban, Victor, and Shuriki for the bingo?

Esteban, my beloved <3

Unsurprisingly a double-bingo for the blorbo. Clarification for a few of the points.

I am mainly being hyperbolic when I say Esteban has never done anything wrong in his life. I am fully aware that he has done some very bad things. However, I still maintain that he has still done less wrong than the narrative thinks he has and that he had already been more than punished enough by the time his actions come to light. 40+ years of isolation, a guilty conscience exacerbated by survivor's guilt and the responsibility of being the only thing standing between your country and a ruthless tyrant. Adding to that the fact Esteban was at most 18--frightfully naive, very scared and lonely and extremely young--when he made the worst mistake a person can make and had to live with the consequences for decades. Yeah, he was definitely punished enough long before Elena banished him.

I am also being a bit hyperbolic when I say that "no one understands Esteban but me." There are actually a bunch of people in the fandom who understand him pretty well, though overall, there are even more who don't understand him or who misinterpret crucial aspects of his character. A big thing for me is that there's a lack of recognition that a lot of Esteban's supposed "arrogance" is a facade and defense mechanism. He hates himself far more than he loves himself--and a lot of fans seem to miss that. On a much smaller note, when "Wizard School House" headcanons were still socially acceptable to make, I notice that Esteban was consistently placed in the "snake" house, supposedly because he is cunning and ambitious. However, this has never seemed right to me. He's never really sought power in and of itself, but more as a means of self-protection and/or because he feels it's what he's "supposed" to want/ a decent enough alternative if he can't have what he really wants (love and belonging). This sets him apart from Shuriki, Paloma, and the Delgados--who I see as more "natural" Slyther*ns, since the power in and of itself is what they seek. Imo, there's a decent case to be made for Esteban in any of the other houses, but I'd put my money on the "bird" house personally.

"Suck" is wayyyyy too strong a word, but Esteban/Paloma is by-far the most popular ship for Esteban in the fandom, and I don't much care for it.

When I say that Esteban is done dirty by the creators, has wasted potential, and has not enough screen time, I am primarily talking about the "Shuriki Returns" arc in S2 as well as a general lack of exploration as to the impact that the Dark Times™ had on Esteban. Now I fully understand why this is the case. For better and for worse, Elena of Avalor is a kid's show, and therefore, it is difficult to fully-present a character's decades of untreated PTSD in a way that is both appropriate and comprehensible for the eight-year olds watching. That being said, there was still much more that could and should've been done with Esteban especially during the Shuriki returns arc. They could've had Esteban speak more in a somewhat vague sense about how he has personal knowledge of just how dangerous Shuriki is and that he can't allow his familia anywhere near her. Or there could've been a moment where someone checks in on Esteban and lets him know that they are aware of how hard this must be for him and that he isn't in this alone anymore. But instead, we got next to nothing during a part of the show which should've been just as emotional and meaningful to Esteban's development as it was for Elena.

My opinions about Esteban that would likely cause concern for most of the fandom are primarily in reference to some of the people that I ship him with and/or some of my darker headcanons about what exactly the Dark Times™ might have entailed for him.

Victor

In terms of wasted potential and not getting enough screentime, I think Victor and Carla should've joined Team Avalor midway through S3 as opposed to only a few episodes from the end. I also think Elena, Esteban, and Victor's characters would've all benefitted from another flashback episode set just before Shuriki's initial invasion and allowing us to get a better handle on the characters, their relationships, and their states of mind just before their lives were irrevocably change. It's also a bit of an overstatement to say that I "don't think about Victor much." The truth is that I don't think about Victor as an individual entity much (especially in comparison to some of the other characters), but I do think about his relationships with and to other characters (especially Esteban, Carla, and Elena) a good amount--and these are the specific "dynamics" in question that I particularly enjoy Victor as part of and of which I wish that I could see more. I am also aware that Victor/Paloma never interacted in canon, but the potential (shippy or otherwise) of their interactions lives in my head rent-free. Yet another reason that we were robbed of the Delgados getting redeemed earlier in S3.

Shuriki

I'm a bit conflicted regarding Shuriki. I actually mostly like the way that she is utilized in the work as is. I actively don't want her to get more complexity/a sympathetic backstory the way that some others do. She works best as an ominious, omnipotent presence haunting the characters and the narrative (Esteban and Elena in particular). That being said, I do think that the Shuriki returns arc was shorter than it needed to be and that crucial aspects were missing from it. (As I had already mentioned, we were owed more Shuriki & Esteban interaction post-Secret of Avalor. We also should've seen more about how her return impacted the characters other than Elena herself.) I also think that during parts of the return arc, she was taken a bit less seriously than warranted. It became harder to view her as intimidating, insensate evil when she's complaining that her cringefail minions Victor and Carla just burst into song.

[electricbluebutterflies]

putting ear over their heart for the prompts :')

Early-era Jessica/Leto, PG-ish, also on ao3.

Jessica stays, after.

She’s been doing that more and more often, on the nights she is asked for. Like most of the behaviors she’s picked up in these few years, this one surprises her, another new shade of a life she may be defining in her own way. So much unexpected, so much-

She stays, and the strange part is she actually wants to.

They have cultivated routines, which is to say that she knows what she’s good for and she was lucky enough to be placed in a situation where that is respected. Some core part of that man’s soul likes her, damned if she knows how, and-

Now is no time for analysis of the dynamic, she decides. She’s tired, pleasantly worn out from recent activities, and she doesn’t want to move, and she can’t-

“Did I harm you?”

Such caution unprovoked, if not outright worry. She has done nothing, she reminds herself, she has done so close to nothing and still-

“Not in any way that seemed intentional,” she replies after a few moments. A glance down at her body reveals what may be a few light bruises on her hips, but if she can’t feel them then they don’t even count, and-

“Not quite what I asked.”

Her current position is challenging for eye contact anyways, and she shifts her body and buries her face against a pillow. “Your concern is a kindness, but… an unnecessary one, for now.”

She feels fingertips on her back, pushing her hair away from her skin – she has observed a tactile need in that man, always doing something with his hands, touching her far more than necessary, she ought to get rid of that habit, she ought to-

“You’ve gotten softer. It’s strange.”

He does not mean harm, Jessica reminds herself. That is not their way. Such a comment from anyone else might make her tense or self-critical, but in this moment, their bodies so recently separated…

“Is it pleasing?”

“I can’t imagine you could ever be anything else.”

There’s something concerned in his voice still, like he doesn’t yet know more than he should but he will in time, like she would still be treated the same if she exposed her vulnerabilities. There are so many conversations they have not had that might make domestic functioning easier if that is to be their path, and… some of those may be unnecessary, Jessica thinks. She’s done some underestimating too, failed so slightly but anything less than perfect is damnation, and yet-

“I could be,” she says after a comfortable silence. “If I had reason enough.”

She turns her head again just in time to see a look cross his face like he doesn’t quite believe her, and she knows she has done something wrong but she can’t quite pin what, and-

“I’m not sure that would work.”

Two years, she thinks, two years of being underestimated by every living thing she’s had to deal with on this planet – no, underestimated has been the better option, there are some who fear what she might be and still see her as a threat even though she’s all but made herself one with the walls, even though she has been perfectly-

“How so? I am more than capable of-“

“I would like to think I’m well aware of your capabilities,” he murmurs, fingertips tracing patterns on her back like he does when emotions start to come up. “That is… perhaps a part of the problem. You have been frightfully easy to fall in love with, thorns and all.”

Well, now he’s gone for it. If ever there were a reason to run damage control, to lace her voice immediately and nip that feeling before it turns contagious…

She can’t. She won’t. She’s not sure there’s a difference between those two little statements.

What harm is there in expressed affection, she wonders. It is as real as anything could ever be, she knows that much, built over time and she hasn’t made it easy but something in that man wanted her from the moment their lives became entangled, perhaps even needed her, not to possess but to exist alongside and isn’t that the original meaning of her official status anyways and-

“And if I can’t respond in kind?”

“You have responded enough. You didn’t run, you’re still here in my bed and looking in my general direction, you’re not even yelling yet and-“

Don’t tempt her, she wants to say and won’t. Both of those overreactions crossed her mind, and she still didn’t-

“I do care for you,” she breathes, shifting her body closer, shifting so her head is on his chest and she can focus on his heartbeat somehow perfectly steady despite everything. Something inherently calming, she thinks, as she knows she is to him as well, something impeccably balanced as all placed dynamics ought to be and-

“More than enough.”

“I can’t use such strong words yet, but… I do accept the affection. I do trust your heart and your judgement.”

He knows what a strong compliment that is from her, and there’s a pleasant silence as he processes, as they both do, as-

“More than enough,” he repeats like that’s the end of everything and somehow it is. “More than I could ever ask for.”

She wants to believe this too, but she knows this may be one of the only polite lies he keeps against her. The truth is made clearer as she slowly drifts out of consciousness, aware that he does not follow her, and she hears dreams spoken in a quiet voice, ways to bind them, a direction desperately wanted and-

When the time comes, she will respond. Not now. Not yet.

[duskgathers]

what're dick's thoughts on some of the more morally grey characters like catwoman/selena or harley quinn/harleen

honestly, despite what some of the fandom and the family might think, dick is friends and respects a lot of morally grey characters, even those on the villains’ side. he’s by far more comfortable with selena than with harley (selena does have an on-and-off relationship with bruce that dick doesn’t necessarily hate but doesn’t necessarily love either; although, dick definitely prefers selena to talia, who he’s hated ever since he was a little kid), of course, but that’s mainly because he still really hates the joker for jason’s death, so when harley is with the joker, dick tends to be “////:” at her (when she’s alone, depending on what she’s doing, he doesn’t really mind her as much). 

i mean, he has a friendly enough disposition that he seemed just slightly annoyed by deathstroke of all people ( until, ofc, deathstroke helped a bunch of people bomb bludhaven and kill, probably, 90% of the population, where dick therefore jumped straight into I’LL RUIN YOUR LIFE DEATHSTROKE YOU WANNA FUCKING BET and then proceeded to “take” his only child left away from him ).

i mean, it’s not like he LIKES the actions that the others take all of the time ( if selena steals from a rich person and gives some of the money back to the homeless, well, dick’s not going to be too upset about that. if she uses all of the money to ONLY pay herself, however, dick’s going to be like “really?” ). 

to briefly mention jason, his discomfort with jason’s killing of others stems more of dick’s desire for bruce and jason to come back together as a family and the fact that he doesn’t want jason to turn into a killer/serial killer, not the fact he disagrees that those people shouldn’t have died, necessarily ( although, it does depend on the person and whether or not they have a family ).

this is the man who beat the joker to death with his bare hands. rage reaction, mental breakdown or not, there is just something deeply personal about beating someone with their bare hands that might be entirely possible once he’s snapped but not unless he had the potential for it, y’know? 

dick holds himself to a higher standard, ofc, because a lot of his beliefs in the “no-killing” rule ties in very heavily to how he feels about bruce – or, rather, what he perceives bruce might feel about him. which is why he has his breakdown after he kills the joker and after he let tarantula kill blockbuster, he thinks about how bruce would react. 

but, like, either way, as i said just a paragraph before, dick will always hold himself to a higher standard than the rest of humanity. that’s just what he does – he demands perfection of himself, but he knows that the world isn’t as black-and-white as he tries to portray himself as. 

[drabsyo]

I was wondering...I was always confused about Narcissa’s hair. It’s been a while since I read the books. Did she color it blonde to show her now belonging to House Malfoys. Or was it naturally blonde? Movies confused me a bit I guess.

Yes, this had me confused too! I've agonized and toiled over it, more than I probably should, about how I should draw her hair because people have generally different views, which is totally understandable! 💕

And I've always wanted to discuss it, so now that I've been given a reason to... Well.

If you take a look at some of my Narcissa fanart, you'll notice the different ways I'd color her hair. I was so confused. Is she a light blonde? Dark blonde? A mix of raven hair and blonde hair? If she has blonde hair then why does her family have (mostly) dark hair? And WHY does she have blue eyes?! This woman is absolutely confusing! (Which is kind of, you know, fitting because Narcissa always loves to be a mystery to literally anyone lol)

So I did my homework, asked around, and scoured every bit of information, canon or otherwise, that I could find about her. It led me to this:

In canon, this is what the Black sisters look like. You can find the page here. Narcissa is a child here, and already has blonde hair. So we can go ahead and safely assume that she was born with natural blonde hair. But in the films, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. I don't actually know why they gave her that hair color, maybe so that the audiences wouldn't question her blood relations with the Blacks--I don't know. I really don't. But now we have a book version Narcissa, one who has full blonde hair. And a movie version Narcissa, one who has raven and blonde hair. At least, that's how the different hair colors started: a movie version, and a book version.

So... here's where it gets confusing.

To my knowledge, it isn't actually explained why her hair color is the way it is in both the movies and the books. Having blonde hair does raise many questions, how is she the "only" blonde in a family of dark hair and dark eyes? To top it all off, it gets even more confusing, because fanon writes and draws her either as a full blonde or a mix of raven and blonde hair. We just have this large pile to sift through of her having either hair color. No one actually explains anything. She's just... infuriatingly there. She's either blonde or raven haired and blonde. BUT fanfiction writers, as I've observed, give their own reasons why Narcissa's hair color is the way it is in their respective stories. And it's actually pretty creative and interesting! It adds even greater depth to her character, and it fits the narrative of the story even better. Remember, the character we're dealing with is Narcissa Black. One of her main traits is "she won't do anything unless there is a clear purpose behind it." This character is deliberate, meticulous, and she makes sure to plan ahead at all times. And so, some fanfiction writers decide to play on that.

You can skip this part if you want to avoid spoilers but I've compiled a small list of instances in (Cissamione) fanfiction where Narcissa's hair is mentioned.

🔹 In Extinction by rubikanon in Chapter 10: Build and Break, Hermione asks Narcissa about it. Here, Narcissa has black and blonde hair. She explains that she only decided to dye it blonde to "fit in with the Malfoys." We can gather two things from that alone, which resonates with her character perfectly: 1.) Narcissa is loyal and 2.) Narcissa purposefully wants to show the rest of the world how loyal she is by committing to having blonde hair. The woman has some serious commitment, and it shows. But now, the way that it's slowly growing back into her natural black hair color, hints that perhaps Narcissa no longer wishes to fit in with the Malfoys. However, if we take an even closer look, we can safely assume that Narcissa isn't the kind of person to just leave her hair color "unattended" like that. Remember, she's meticulous. And this is a big deal for her, the fact that she's just kind of letting it grow back instead of either fully dyeing it back to black, or dyeing it back to blonde. It suggests that perhaps she's a little unsure this time, perhaps it is her uncertainty that is the reason why it's now a mix of both. Another grey area? Or maybe it's actually something more deliberate? Maybe now, she likes that it's a mix of both. That other half now being solely for Draco, and not to fit in (completely) with the Malfoys any longer. Who knows why Narcissa does things the way she does? We can speculate to the ends of the earth, or be as smart as Hermione Granger (or with the case of Extinction, see Hermione's thoughts), but something tells me we'd still be a good step behind.

"Which one is your natural hair color?" I wondered aloud.

(Narcissa) She glanced up at the unexpected question. I was relieved she hadn't sensed my attention yet. It's not like I meant anything by it, I told myself. She was so beautiful, one couldn't help but notice. And feel physically drawn to her. And want to see her two-toned hair fanned across her back, slipping over the bare skin, silky beneath my fingers...

"Why do you ask?" Her query brought me back to reality, and I hurriedly corrected my imagination to include a pretty dress covering the rest of her.

"I don't know." I chewed the inside of my cheek, suppressing my other thoughts. "I'm just curious."

Her gaze returned to the fire. "You've seen enough of my relatives to guess which color is genetic. The blond is something I added to fit in with the Malfoys, after Draco was born." She was quiet for a moment. "He looks so much like his father. I suppose I wanted to share some resemblance."

🔹 In Killing Me Softly by Looktotheedges in Chapter 4: Nagging, Hermione suggests that perhaps Narcissa is part Veela because of her blonde hair and very attractive features, like Fleur. Which is this whole other theory/plot that's very interesting, but won't be discussed in this post. Narcissa tells Hermione that Sirius has always been blonde, and that it isn't out of the question for her to be blonde either. Sirius Black. A blonde. I know! Maybe it's there because it's funny that Sirius is actually blonde like Narcissa. Prissy, haughty, lady-like Narcissa. Arguably the 'girliest' cousin that he has. No, no, no. He doesn't want to be anything like Narcissa. Anyway, if that's the reason, I think that's hilarious and cute.

Narcissa turns away. 'I am aware my appearance is frightfully drab. Work has been…'

Hermione holds back a disbelieving scoff. 'Narcissa. You always look beautiful. And you’re talking to the witch with grass in her hair who practically lives in her office all week.'

Narcissa just leans further over the crib. 'A blonde little boy. It has been so long since… I can almost imagine…'

Hermione stands next to her. Looks down at the peacefully sleeping Louis. He does look remarkably like Draco. 'Are you sure there’s no Veela blood in you? You weren’t secretly switched at birth?'

'Like a changeling?'

'It would explain your blonde hair.'

'Sirius was also blonde, it is not completely out of the question for us Blacks.'

What?!

(...) 'I know. But it is the truth. He was blond until he was about seven… then it began to darken. Mousy. Dull. He wanted to look cool and brooding instead, so he got his hands on some kind of charm right before he set off for Hogwarts. A new, edgy Sirius. It was around then he forbade us from calling him Siri. Said it sounded too girly.'

🔹 In Fixed in Time by TheWorldsaBeastofBurden in Chapter 9: Sisters and Saviors, it's also tackled a little humorously. Andromeda let's a little comment slip while they're in the middle of trying to heal Hermione. Something funny, something that suggests Andromeda and Bella, when they were children, have always wondered why Narcissa is blonde unlike them.

The first words spoken occurred after they’d risen and attempted their casting. Andromeda’s preparedness to take on their task had been clear in her mind so Narcissa rose with her sister, wrapped an arm around her waist and held her near as the woman raised her wand to draw up the rest of the injury she’d dropped, half a slash across Hermione’s hip bone…

That remained half, as Andromeda growled out, “...it isn’t working.” she looked to Narcissa, “Why aren’t you powering me?”

What nonsense? “I am!” she insisted. She was! Or “I- I am trying to!” Her magic was active and alive, pulsing to rise from her skin and transfer into Andromeda’s but it- it wasn’t working! “Could...could it be that you were disowned?”

“Disowning doesn’t take away the fact that we share blood, our magic is directly related. Ugh, Bella always said you were adopted!”

“Oh ha- oh.”

“...oh?” Andromeda returned.

“...it’s not an issue of power. It is what I intend to aid in casting,” Narcissa slowly worked out. Oh, it was most blessed Mister Goyle could be brought to assist the present Hermione. If her present self had been brought to aid Andromeda? “...I cannot harm Hermione.”

Andromeda sighed with some frustration. “I understand you are so tenderly in love-”

“It isn’t- I’m avowed! I- when we arrived from the future we had to escape Malfoy Manor, I couldn’t bring Hermione through the wards without...I couldn’t add her directly, that would be visible. I had to...attach her permission to mine.”

🔹 In Glass Silence by Zarrene Moss (Menzosarres), which probably gives one of the most interesting backstories for Narcissa's hair, for why it's blonde. I can't put a clip of the scene here without hogging up a huge chunk of space on your dash, so I'll try to explain it as best I can instead.

Understand that these come with serious 🛑spoilers🛑 so please do read it at your own risk.

In Glass Silence, Narcissa's hair and eye color was black at birth. But after an accident with raw magic, something Bellatrix wasn't able to control when they were children, Narcissa almost dies. Bellatrix, using even more raw magic, tries desperately to pull Narcissa's "life force" back, but at the cost of losing the eumelanin that made Narcissa's eyes and hair black. Narcissa survived, but now has very little eumelanin left, which is why she's so pale, blonde, and has blue eyes. Every time Narcissa looks at a mirror, her reflection is a reminder of the day she almost died. Bella, on the other hand, is reminded of that day every single time she looks at Narcissa.

So! These are only a few fanfictions I could think of at the top of my head that tackles the issue of Narcissa's hair. In the books, to my knowledge, she is described as having blonde hair and very pale skin.

But let's take another deep dive, if you're up for it.

These are mostly theories, which are largely unconfirmed, but I think they're interesting to think about.

There's this description in the wiki:

"Narcissa Malfoy is described as tall, slim, "nice looking", and very pale, with blue eyes, long blonde hair, and a clear, cold voice. Her hair colouring thus differs from most of the House of Black, who generally have dark hair, though Narcissa does possess the arrogant good looks characteristic of her family."

There's also this pinterest photo of the Black sisters being compared to each other side by side, descriptively and physically. I'm so sorry, I don't know who drew it, but here's a link to the post on pinterest.

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

Which is interesting because this hints that she's... different. It's a bit literal in this sense--she comes from a pureblood family, arguably the most influential and notorious one, the Blacks, who mostly have dark hair and eyes, and yet her physical appearance directly contrast that. There's also the matter of her namesake. She's the only Black to be named after a flower instead of a galaxy or a star. We aren't really given any explanation why she's the only one who's different. Even Sirius, who fought and died for the side of the Light, is named after the brightest star in the sky. Even Andromeda. It's been said that this is actually meant to be a parallel of some sort to Lily Evans. Narcissa and Lily are both named after flowers, even Petunia (Lily's sister). And I know there's this thing where it's a tie up to how Harry was ultimately saved by a mother's love: Harry lived at the beginning because of his mother's love, and Harry lives once again at the end of the books because Narcissa, a mother who wanted to save her own son, saved him.

If you read that scene in the books where Harry is saved by Narcissa, the whole scene is actually... pretty soft? There's that sort of disarming softness about Narcissa in that moment, where Harry expected to be callously dragged and prodded for a heartbeat. Instead, he gets a surprisingly gentle touch, a curtain of long blonde hair shielding him from the darkness, and the kind of tenderness he wouldn't expect from his enemies, "Is Draco alive?"

It's almost like Narcissa's appearance is something of a "tell". With Andromeda, she's described to have kind eyes, open, unguarded. She inherited her family's dark eyes and dark hair, and she even looks like Bellatrix's twin. I suppose we could say, Andromeda wants to fight that in any way she can by being openly kind. Narcissa is quite literally the opposite--guarded eyes, stoic expressions, cool and calculated emotions. We're veering into this fine line between fanon and canon in terms of their characterization (but only due to lack of canon materials) but personally, I think Narcissa having blonde hair and blue eyes is somewhat more fitting for her character. Again, this line:

"Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale she seemed to shine in the darkness... long blonde hair streaming down her back."

It's like that one glaringly obvious hint that everyone overlooks simply because... because it's the most obvious one. "Me! I'm different! I'm the last person you'd expect, but it really is me!"

Anyway. I've rambled on long enough. Hope this clears up some of that confusion, anon. Hoping it didn't ADD even more confusion... 😂 At the end of the day, this is just me speculating, gushing, and being One Big Fool™. So.

But either way, blonde hair, dark hair, mix of both, I adore her. Pretty much.

[orsuliya]

The fact that XQ isnt't afraid to hug his wife sweetly in front of his soldiers and generals... Standing in front of them with eyes closed and such a raw emotions on his face... Not being afraid to be seen weak or not manly enough. Wow. That is top manliness for me. Alpha wolf indeed.

Okay, enough is enough. I get that we are all grateful to the Empress Dowager for providing us with such a nifty metaphor, but my stallion one was better it’s getting a bit worn around the edges. Fine, that’s a filthy lie. The truth is that every time I see this whole alpha wolf and proud she-wolf bit, my mind does a weird, weird thing and skips straight to pondering on who would be the Moon Moon of that pack. It’s totally Song Huaien, by the way. No need to thank me for that interesting piece of mental imagery.

Huh, Xiao Qi really is the poster child man for healthy masculinity. Emotional stoicism? Why not, but only as far as it serves an actual purpose and is not a product of silly prejudice. The thing that makes Xiao Qi such a compelling and utterly charismatic character is that he’s frightfully self-aware. It takes an excellent knowledge of your own mental functioning to be able not only to freely admit to feeling fear, but also to realistically estimate your abilities. Xiao Qi hides only those emotions that should be hidden for a good reason and only when there is a good reason for hiding them. And mind you, concealing your emotions from others also means bottling them up to an extent. Which... may have unpredictable consequences. A bloody wise man, our general is.

The rest of his emotions? Those are left in the open for everybody to see and that includes the fact that he loves his wife. Because why the hell should he hide that? It’s not a weakness, not politically and even if, then not to an extent that would necessitate hiding it. And it’s not shameful in the least, because how could it be? Awu is his lawfully wedded wife, loving her is basically his duty, right...? And duty should be first and foremost for every Ningshuo soldier! The fact that he’s positively bursting with pride knowing that such a brave, beautiful, smart and overall wonderful True Princess has chosen him - and keeps choosing him every day - has nothing to do with that!

Also, once you achieve a certain level of manly confidence, that level being godlike in this case, you don’t need to do things to boost your masculinity, not anymore. It’s the exact opposite: every single thing you do automatically becomes the manliest thing ever due to the very fact it’s being done by the manliest man around.

[oldsolidbooks]

The trade and the ton

I am partial to historical romance novels, and particularly fond of the traditional Regency romance. They are not a so-called “guilty pleasure” for me, as I hold them in high esteem, and delight in them openly. But I do admit that I am rather picky about the books of this genre I read—or of any genre, for I am a picky reader—and always pleased to find a particularly good specimen. Some of those are famous, classics of the genre, others are hardly known.

One of those hidden gems is The Weaver Takes a Wife by Sheri Cobb South.

I found it browsing a goodreads list, and added it spontaneously to the little collection of used paperbacks I bought with a valentine’s gift code from my favourite online book store. It arrived soon afterwards, and I immediately, actually rather randomly, picked it up and read it. And I loved every line on every page!

I expected it to be a pleasant read, nice and just generally good fun. It turned out to be brilliant. The little black volume itself looks good enough, though unassuming, if not a bit off, perhaps, as the type-setting is pretty but at times looks unfinished. As I found out, it was independently published in 1999, when indie and self-publishing was not quite as common as it is now, and the style in Regency romances differed from the older classics and the current revival of the genre.

The story itself is gorgeous. It is written in a far more traditional style, reminiscent of Heyer, yet not at all imitating her. Only a tad old-fashioned, fit to the period and without being stuffy, very funny and full of sparkling dialogue. The supporting cast is great, featuring everything a traditional Regency romance needs, such as a no-good but darling younger brother; a set of caring friends; loyal servants, prone to gossip; and a quite despicable villain. Unlike other books of its type, it also features a delightful group of cotton mill workers.

The hero, Mr Ethan Brundy, is simply amazing, and very unusual for the genre: an illegitimate workhouse brat turned super-rich cotton mill owner, who drops his aitches and dresses expensively, with little taste. He is genuinely kind and caring, responsible and confident. His accent and his earnesty, not to mention his appearance, cause people of the ton to underestimate his intelligence and quick grasp. Nor do they understand that he cares not in the least about their opinion of him—he stands by his background, his class, and his convictions, and he does so with a disarming friendliness. His unwavering strength of character, combined with his exceptional candour, and his controversial opinions, expressed so kindly, are a joy to behold. And so is his love for his reluctant bride.

Lady Helen, or ‘elen, as her husband calls her, is very much unlike him: cold, haughty, and supercilious. She hasn’t a kind word for anyone, except perhaps her brother, and she delights in shoving her numerous suitors away by mere force of rudeness. Though very beautiful, she makes her way through more seasons than her father could afford, because she is still waiting for a man who might not exist. Mr Brundy is, for her, a mere laughing-stock, hardly a real person.

“Mr. Brundy,” she said with a nod, making the most perfunctory of curtsies to her father’s guest. He made no move to take her hand, but merely bowed and responded in kind. “Lady ‘elen.” “My name is Helen, Mr. Brundy,” she said coldly. “Very well– ‘elen,” said Mr. Brundy, surprised and gratified at being given permission, and on such short acquaintance, to dispense with the use of her courtesy title.

Now why does she marry him? Because Mr Brundy, as I have said before, is more than confident, and certain he to reach every goal he sets himself. The moment he sets eye on his ‘elen, he decides to marry her, and her father, a dept-ridden duke, pressures her to accept his offer of her hand. She gives in:

“Mr. Brundy, you are no doubt as well acquainted with my circumstances as I am with yours, so let us not beat about the bush. I have a fondness for the finer things in life, and I suppose I always will. As a result, I am frightfully expensive to maintain. I have already bankrupted my father, and have no doubt I should do the same to you, should you be so foolhardy as to persist in the desire for such a union. Furthermore, I have a shrewish disposition and a sharp tongue. My father, having despaired of seeing me wed to a gentleman of my own class, has ordered me to either accept your suit or seek employment. If I married you, it would be only for your wealth, and only because I find the prospect of marriage to you preferable –but only slightly!- to the life of a governess or a paid companion. If, knowing this, you still wish to marry me, why, you have only to name the day.” Having delivered herself of this speech, Lady Helen waited expectantly for Mr. Brundy’s stammering retraction. Her suitor pondered her words for a long moment, then made his response. “’ow about Thursday?”

And now, the (supposed) marriage of convenience slowly evolves into a love-match of misunderstandings. Only Mr Brundy’s friends are truly aware of his sincere feelings for his wife, and only one of them of her feelings for him. Because Lady Helen enters marriage not only thinking her groom a cit, but certain that he’s only after her social standing. He, in turn, takes all her insults to heart and believes that she only married him for money even as her feelings for him grow to fondness, and love.

All this is tricky to write, for has it been done with less grace and skill, both characters and their romance would have been insufferable. But Mr Brundy’s love for his wife and his way with her are wonderful, as lovely as could be, and her growth as a person, and the development of her feelings are plausible and well-written, gradually, yet with sudden, clear reason.

There are sudden, tender moments of a shy, reluctant couple; adorable scenes of the Pygmalion kind; dinners and balls and dress fittings and the refreshing contrast of trade and ton—and a significant trip to the industrial North.

And in the end, there’s a great, rather Heyer-esque adventure, which causes first more secrets and misunderstandings, and brings our couple to defeat the villain, and finally admit their mutual love to each other.

It is truly a gem, I promise. It is a Regency romance in the most traditional sense, and yet thoroughly original. It’s funny, but never silly. Sensual, but restrained. Romantic and sweet, but never saccharine. All in all, a true delight.

[fearlessskywalker]

                                                                SORELY MISSED STRENGTH.

The chilled plastic of the mask lay against his face solidly after he’d tied it underneath where his hair was pulled into a high bun of waves. He’d taken a page from Padmé’s book he’d left two small pieces to fall to the front loose and free and present even over the mask. With a sad smile at that move hidden by the mask itself, he moved through the halls of what had been the Jedi temple at one point. He could remember running after Ahsoka down that hallway jeering her laughing the whole way to the training grounds, watching Quinlan tease Obi-Wan by that bench about something small, there was the place where he’d hidden when the dreams of his mother and of Padmé had gotten too strong. 

The force screamed even now as he wandered slowly closer and closer to where the din of talking grew louder. It screamed in through his ear while also looping around his brain before it sent what felt like questing fingers around his lungs. He’d seen so many fall in these halls. People who had raised had helped him, people who had talked behind his back, those who were just as complicit in the fall of the Galaxy as him in their own ways. 

A Galaxy that was now his. Or would be once he engineered the fall of Mas Amedda, someone who he was shocked was still alive. Though the other did always seem to keep up with politics well though if that was the man himself or the cultural influence of his species was something Anakin didn’t know. Shaking his thoughts off as if they were a grasp he was reluctantly caught in he strode quickly to what he assumed had been the room of a thousand fountains. It wasn’t as green as it had been processed as his first thought on the room, as Anakin took in the soft music and the soft of gently falling water under the sounds of people talking that it faded into a thing where individual words were rare to pick up.

 It wasn’t too different though the ground had been replaced with some type of shiny mineral and there were fewer platforms in the air with water falling from them but on the larger one you could see guests talking quietly or dancing in a slow graceful circle. It made something inside of him yearn to have been able to have Padmé in his arms like that. Seen. Happy together. But that was someone else's life, not his, and not Vader’s. 

Anakin walked through the crowd of people milling around on the base level to get over to the clearly sectioned off area where Emperor and his closest cabinet members stood while those who worked the event drifted in and out of the background. With a smirk, he grabbed a drink off of a platter that drifted by him. Biding his time and sipping slowly he watched couples twirling past, their formal wear flashing by in all colors of the rainbow, as the liquid in his glass slowly started to disappear and the taste of pears coated his mouth.

It was strange he decided as a dark green Rodian slipped past his thoughts once more ruminated over the dying words that had been spat at him. He’d been called sith shit before and had never ever wanted to live up to them yet here he stood in a room that had fascinated him since he’d arrived at the temple with his resolve burning as strong as his saber. He would do this as was his right and while he loved knowing those he loved were alive it wasn’t enough. It was time to go back and fix it before Sidious, and that was who he was Palpatine had only been a frightfully good mask, ever got his wrinkly little hands-on Anakin’s younger self. 

With sure and confident steps, he made his way into the bubble of importance as he mentally referred to Mas Amedda’s posse in his head, setting the glass down on a table as he passed,  his hand quickly sunk into his hidden pocket within his jacket to withdraw it. The cool metal of its hilt met his black leather glove and it seemed to him that his steps echoed off the mineral floors but he knew that was his brain becoming even more aware of his surroundings in the force sharpening his senses in preparation for a possible fight.

As he got closer he could hear their voices easier as they talked and laughed about how the Empire might have lost ground briefly but it would gain it all back with their plans. He stopped for a second as he recognized the person walking away from the Emperor’s table after serving them all drinks. Iden Versio. His spy and helper became a traitor. If she were here that meant the Rebellion had to be involved since she was clearly attempting to be undercover. Fuck. Was she alone? If she wasn’t who would be here? If they tarnished his plan he’d be pissed. His anger boiled up and irises melted from blue to a sickly yellow as his steps started up once more at a faster pace, glancing around attempting to quickly absorb any possible familiar faces. 

Seeing him coming two of the troopers tried to contain him by gruffly demanding this area was for those known to the Emperor personally. Too bad for them Anakin’s saber was drawn with the ignition being flipped mid slice across the first troopers plastoid armor causing their body to hit the floor with a thud as he threw his saber in the air only to catch it in a backward grip hand. Sliding his hand backward in a fast jerk, the blade slid into the second trooper’s torso with sickening ease. A second body hit the floor like a large rock in a body of water causing silence to spread like the waves on the surface. 

He had their full attention. 

Roguishly smiling at the silent crowd before he turned the gently humming saber off, keeping it loosely in his hand, “Lovely night, isn’t it Amedda? Long time, no see?” Chuckling as he stepped, and kicked a hand off his foot from where it had hit after it had hit the floor the plastoid leaving a short squealing sound in the silence making more than a few wince or cringe at the noise. “Don’t recognize me very well? That’s okay, it seems too many are used to me being in a larger suit. One that was likened to a dark shadow by some and others for its oh so annoying labored breathing. I just wanted to stop by for a visit to say the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated!” His voice echoed and bounced off the walls eerie in its rough cheerfulness between the water’s gentle roar against the rocky basins. 

“Seems as though that strength I carried has been sorely missed,” he brushed past the clearly in shock Amedda who had already drunk more than half of whatever Versio had given him. Anakin hoped it hurt. The man had stood around without a spine for over twenty years bowing to every whim of the law instead of finding the paths to actually help. Again, politicians didn’t seem all that proactive to him. The only ones he’d ever known to want to be proactive was Padmé and Bail Organa. And even Padmé hesitated on some things, saying that the ‘’proper’’ channels were needed first. 

Walking backward for a brief time he raised his voice, “expect orders on your desk tomorrow Rax. We have several things to go over. Many things need… Fixing.” Steps echoed down the hallway once more as he quickly left the temple masquerading as a palace to jump into a passing speeder of a passing troopers ship. 

[firebirdsdaughter]

HoroFuwa, 40 and RaidenFuwa, 44

These (both) got pretty long, so I’m gonna try and make a cut here… Is that still broken for Asks? Let’s find out!

40 = A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them.

My boys. I miss them already. TT^TT

Since I ended up not getting to this until post finale… Let’s do something post ending.

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“Vulcan.”

Fuwa looked up to find Horobi standing over him, a bundle of cloth folded over one arm, staring down at him. “… What?” He demanded cautiously, eyeing the items that looked suspiciously like clothing, then, “… And I have a name.”

How long since Horobi and Jin had invaded his apartment and never left? They’d essentially moved in weeks, maybe even months ago, and still neither of them had seen fit to start using his name. Again, he thought about how he should have kicked them out ages ago, but… Even though Jin had staked out the sofa as his own and Horobi insisted on cleaning everything constantly, they had proven to be reliable backup in the field, and it was mainly because of them that his miniature, personal mission of keeping the peace had become anything more than an uncoordinated vigilante act. Even though Horobi had commandeered all cooking duties after he caught Fuwa eating instant ramen for breakfast more than once, the HumaGear was actually a frightfully good cook, and it was… Nice to not have to worry about it. And maybe it was because they were HumaGear and didn’t require as much as a human might’ve, but even though the apartment had been small even when it was just him, had never been meant for multiple people, the company was… Despite himself, he enjoyed it. Things had been weird at first, but… The atmosphere had changed. Jin had actually apologised for hacking his chip and trying to kill him. And Horobi…

Horobi was still staring expectantly at him, one eyebrow raised. Horobi was the complicated one. The HumaGear he’d thought had caused all his suffering, who had turned out to be just another victim in a long chain of dominos. The one he caught himself staring at with alarming regularity, like when the sunlight made his hair glow gold, or the way his hands moved while he cleaned or cooked. The one that all of AIMS had apparently decided he was already sleeping with. He felt his face heating up again at just remembering some of the circulating rumours he’d convinced Naki to tell him, embarrassing even in their dry, indifferent tones—and yet… He’d kept asking.

“Jin is concerned about presentation.”

“… What?” He had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

Horobi just sighed. “He feels that your general appearance is too dissonant with ours. He thinks the new MetsubouJinrai should have a more… Unified air.”

Fuwa’s jaw dropped. “… What?” So they’d been sort of working together—but he didn’t remember ever agreeing to join…

But Horobi seemed unperturbed by his bewilderment, holding out the things in his arms. “I made these. Put them on.”

Fuwa blinked. “I… What?”

The HumaGear didn’t bother waiting for him to react, reaching down and grabbing his arm, pulling him to his feet and pushing the clothes toward him. “The point is that you wear them.” When Fuwa continued to be confused, Horobi sighed, shaking his head, then put the bundle down on the chair where Fuwa had been sitting. Before he could process what Horobi was doing, the HumaGear was undoing his tie with one hand, the other pulling his blazer off his shoulder.

With a yelp, Fuwa jerked away, struggling to fix his clothes. “Wha… What are you…?!”

Horobi blinked at him, hands still outstretched slightly, looking so innocently bewildered that Fuwa wanted to… He bit the inside of his cheek to focus. “You cannot wear two sets of clothes at once.” He said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Fuwa’s face turned even redder at the nonchalance the HumaGear was approaching the situation with. “That’s not—that isn’t the problem!” He got his suit jacket back over his shoulder from where Horobi had pulled it down to. “I’m not changing clothes in front of you!”

Horobi just looked even more confused. “… Why?”

He took a step forward, and Fuwa moved back quickly, trying to maintain the distance between them. “Because we’re—it’s—that’s not—” He swallowed, trying to recover his senses. Changing in front of Horobi would be weird, he told himself. Uncomfortable. There was absolutely no reason why he would be any sort of okay with it. None whatsoever.

The HumaGear’s frown deepened for a moment—then he surged forward again, catching Fuwa’s blazer by the lapels.  “It’s fine.” He insisted, pushing the jacket off the human’s shoulders again, “I am well aware of human anatomy.”

Frantically, Fuwa’s hands flew up and grabbed Horobi’s wrists, trying to keep things from going any further. “No, that’s not the—” The HumaGear shook his hands off, forcing him to grab again, “This is why there are so many rumours about us, damnit!”

Horobi froze.

He didn’t let go of Fuwa’s blazer, though—if anything, he was holding tighter, just… Staring. So long that Fuwa started to wonder if he’d broken him somehow. “… Horobi?”

“… Rumours?” The HumaGear’s voice was softer, slow, computing what he had said.

Fuwa swallowed, his face heating up even more. “I… I mean…” He bit his cheek even harder, trying to scramble up some way to backtrack, “Nothing… Weird… It’s… It’s just… People talking… It’s… It’s stupid… It’s nothing…” He couldn’t seem to come up with a plausible explanation for rumours that would involve Horobi taking his clothes off—especially not while trying to simultaneously push away the voice whispering that he found that idea was actually… Very appealing, and the fact that many of the stories Naki had retold for him had been quite… Intense.

Something was flickering in Horobi’s eyes, as well as his new earpiece. Like he was looking something up. As inept as he was with interpersonal interaction, there was no way he wouldn’t eventually come up with the correct conclusion (or what if he could even hack into the AIMS system? No one had been gossiping about them on the channels, right?). There wouldn’t be many types of human behaviour associated with these actions, after all. Fuwa felt a lump forming in his throat as he watched the HumaGear’s generally stoic expression shift just slightly. It felt like he’d become very adept at reading Horobi after all this time, and he found himself able to track as the HumaGear steadily went through the information he was finding, wondering what the final reaction would be. He half expected to be tossed aside in disgust, or at least for some sort of horror or shock—if only partially in the hopes of validating what he’d repeatedly told the part of him that had… Liked the idea, that it was impossible and ludicrous.

But instead… The elegant, mostly impassive features softened faintly, and the HumaGear shifted even closer, enough that Fuwa would have been able to feel his breath if he had been human, hold on Vulcan’s blazer shifting to accommodate. “… I see.” Fuwa waited, to be pushed away, belittled, glared at, something, something to make sense of, settle the chaos happening inside him, self-appointed reason and incomprehensible desire clashing violently. He found himself staring unconsciously at Horobi’s lips, fighting the urge to pull the HumaGear closer. Horobi would jerk away in revulsion at any moment. There was no point in deluding himself.

Resolution formed in the HumaGear’s expression, and Fuwa quickly closed his eyes, hoping to make the break easier… Only… Once Horobi pulled his wrists free of Vulcan’s weakening grasp, he merely pulled Fuwa’s suit jacket the rest of the way off. Then those long fingers were settling on Vulcan’s tie again, tugging on the knot without a single hesitation. Fuwa let out another small, startled sound, his eyes flying back open, hands floundering to catch Horobi’s arm again. “H—Horobi!” After getting the HumaGear to pause once more, he clutched tight as he could to the arm he held, hoping to… To… His heart was racing, and his face was burning. “Did you even…?” He swallowed, forcing himself to meet Horobi’s calm, earnest gaze. “You… You understand, don’t you?” He bit his lip, trying to also push down that nonsensically… Hopeful sliver of himself that was whispering that maybe… “What… What people are… Are saying…?” Though small, the HumaGear gave him a steady, visible nod. “If…” He swallowed again, trying to push his voice out, even as it waned, his mouth and throat drying up from the intensity of that stare… “If we keep going like this… It… It’ll be… It’ll practically be true…”

Horobi stared at him for another moment—then those hands were moving upward, delicately cupping his face, thumb trailing across Vulcan’s cheekbone. Horobi leaned even further in, until Fuwa could count his eyelashes, practically feel them brushing his face as the HumaGear’s lids lowered, his lips hovering just a hair’s breadth from Vulcan’s. “… Then let it be true, Fuwa Isamu.”

The breath was sucked out of Fuwa’s lungs even before Horobi closed the small distance, those perfect lips brushing gently over Vulcan’s, and Fuwa’s heartbeat shot up like it was trying to break its way out of his ribcage. The HumaGear held there for a moment, not moving, just a light, soft kiss, before pulling back just enough to look into Fuwa’s eyes questioningly.

There was only one answer.

Fuwa’s hands jumped to Horobi’s shoulders, pulling him back in. This kiss was more intense, desperate, starting some sort of spark that quickly infected both of them, hands moving, scrambling furiously for purchase, trying to get closer, mould together. Fuwa was only passingly aware of being lifted off his feet and pressed against the wall, wedging him between it and the HumaGear’s body, putting them at a level that he didn’t need to crick his neck to keep kissing, wrapping his legs around Horobi’s waist. The HumaGear’s hands paused only long enough to let him push the robe off, then one was weaving into his hair while the other yanked his shirt untucked, slipping underneath it, making him whimper weakly into the kiss. Their mouths moved against each other, Fuwa sucking in frantic breaths when he could, Horobi biting at his bottom lip.

It was… Amazing. For the first time in a long while, Fuwa felt completely comfortable letting go entirely, and the way Horobi was pressing ever closer against him, deepening the kiss even more, indicated he did, too. Vulcan rolled his hips experimentally forward, and felt the HumaGear shiver—grinning into the kiss, he moved again, more eagerly, and kept going. Horobi’s lower hand dropped to trail up his thigh to his hip, yanking him closer, drawing a proper moan from his throat—

A loud yelp shattered the moment completely.

Horobi didn’t actually drop him, miraculously, more set him down and jolted back, spinning around with inhuman speed—but Fuwa got some of the breath knocked out of him from it regardless. In the silence that followed, he had to wheeze for air several time before he managed to drag his head back up—and froze.

Jin was standing by the front door, eyes wide as dinner plates. Horobi was stunned himself, standing rigid while looking past Jin rather than at him, staring over his shoulder. The lump in Fuwa’s throat resurfaced immediately, his blood running cold. Jin wasn’t particularly fond of him to begin with, and even though they had gotten slightly more friendly and found a sort of balance recently… The kid was downright ferociously protective of his father and how uncertain Horobi was in regards to normal life. The last thing he needed was Jin thinking he was taking advantage of Horobi’s naivety—that was likely to get him a gun to the face. After a moment, he also noticed Jin was actually holding the doorknob, which the other HumaGear had apparently ripped right out of the door.

The silence continued for a long time. “… I knocked.” Jin said slowly, ice creeping into his tone, his expression shifting from shock to suspicion. He held up the knob. “… No one answered.”

Fuwa swallowed as best he could, acutely aware of how flushed and dishevelled he was. “I… We… Were… Uh…” Straightening up awkwardly, he tried to look to Horobi for help, but the HumaGear was still completely frozen.

Jin’s gaze was solidly on Vulcan, mouth twisting with disapproval. “I saw.”

Fuwa bit his lip. There definitely wasn’t a good explanation for what the other HumaGear had walked in on—at least, not one that would satisfy Jin. He was pretty sure the kid didn’t want to hear about inappropriate rumours being circulated about his father—plus, his glare was already starting to veer into slightly murderous.

“… I started it.” Horobi’s voice surprised them both, making them both look towards him. He still looked dazed, but had turned to face his son and seemed more collected.

Jin’s expression softened immediately, and he hurried forward, tossing the knob aside so that he could put his hands on his father’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Horobi,” Even his tone was completely different, warm and gentle, “You don’t have to say that.” It was still a little odd to hear them talk to each other—originally it had been the genuine softness they treated each other with, but now… It was the unusual dynamic they had. There was no question Horobi was the father, with the way Jin doted on and followed him around, always cheerfully trying to show him things and drag him places. But there was also something… Different about it. Every now and then, the contrast in their development showed. Like now, Jin was cradling his father’s face in his palm, gazing at him with worried affection, calling him by his name rather than using ‘Otou-san.’ Maybe he thought it would get through to his father better, or maybe it was an attempt to make sure he was taken seriously, not dismissed as some bratty kid. Either way, he only did it when he was being protective—and that made Fuwa feel quite… Nervous.

But instead of going quiet like he usually did, Horobi reached up and put his hand over Jin’s on his face. “I’m not.” He said, sounding abnormally sure of himself, considering the situation. “It was me.”

Jin stared into his father’s face for a moment, frowning slightly. Finally, he nodded slightly. “… Okay.” Letting go of Horobi’s shoulders, he stepped back. Horobi kept watching him for another second—then turned slowly and took a few steps back over to collect his fallen robe. When he straightened back up, his eyes caught Fuwa’s again, briefly restarting the spell. Vulcan’s heart jumped back into his throat, and it felt like he was floating, the urge to reach out a restart the kiss momentarily overtaking him… But Jin’s presence, pointedly glaring, arms already folded, made that impossible. At last, Horobi broke eye contact, turning away and disappearing into the other room, where he’d set up charging stations for both himself and Jin (without asking, as usual), and the silence turned… Tense.

Fuwa swallowed again, glancing sideways at Jin’s annoyed stare, trying to decide if he should say something. But the other HumaGear’s bearing made it very clear he had little interest in whatever explanations Vulcan had in mind. So, instead, Fuwa nodded awkwardly, hurriedly recovering his blazer from the floor at starting toward his room.

“If you hurt him…” Jin’s voice, quiet and controlled, absolutely dripping with venom, brought him to an abrupt stop, peering back over his shoulder, “I will hurt you.”

He could feel the other HumaGear’s glare burning into his back. Swallowing anxiously, he gave a quick nod of understanding, not trusting his voice, or that Jin would care what he said. When the other HumaGear said nothing more, he hurriedly turned and continued on his way towards his bedroom, trying to use his suit jacket to hide his blush.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

… Wow… Uh… So… Essay anyone? ^^; I got a little carried away. But I will persist!

Anyway! Onward!

#############################################

44 = tentative kisses given in the dark

Uh… Okay, so disclaimer, this will be my first time actually trying to write Fuwa and Raiden, so… I’m sorry.

For what, I don’t actually know yet.

I… Might veer into an AU for this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fuwa crashed roughly into a shelf, cursing quietly as he tried to right himself. Of course the power in the building had to go out now, under the worst possible circumstances. Horobi was stuck at headquarters for who knew what because of Amatsu, there was a massive thunderstorm going on, and his stupid, ancient, cheap apartment building had to go and lose power. He couldn’t even pretend to not worry about his partner in peace (but really, ZAIA was showing way to much interest in what was allegedly a defunct android they had foisted on him for being a liability). Another crack of lightning outside briefly illuminated the room, letting him dodge the furniture in his way, making it a few more steps… To crash right into someone’s chest. He very nearly toppled over, but a pair of arms closed around him, holding him up by plastering him against the person he’s crashed into.

“Whoa there…” Murmured a voice by his ear, “You humans a pretty fragile, don’t want to injure yourself crashing around.”

Oh. Right. He was here, too.

He must have made some sound, because he heard a laugh beside his head. “Hey now, I’m not that bad.” Raiden teased, tightening his hold for a moment, one arm dropping down slightly to Fuwa’s waist, “In fact, seemed to me you were getting pretty fond of me…”

Fuwa felt his face heat up, and he quickly began squirming, trying to escape the other HumaGear’s hold. Raiden and his… ‘Distractions’ were the last thing he wanted to think about right now, in the middle of a blackout, with his partner gone and… “Let go of me!”

But Raiden refused to let go—instead, fingers curled under his chin, catching him off guard enough that he went still. The hand holding his face tipped his head up slightly, just as another bolt of lightning lit up the room, briefly shining on the other HumaGear’s face, revealing just how close he was. Raiden wasn’t much taller than him, but Fuwa still felt abruptly small and flimsy in his arms.

He’d thought he was doing quite well at hiding how… Interested he was, kept the stares to a minimum—but Raiden had been designed to infiltrate and gather information, a particularly snide part of him that sounded an awful lot like Horobi’s judgemental tone reminded him. He shouldn’t be surprised that a HumaGear made to go undercover as a spy would notice things. He just wished it didn’t have to come to a head now, and put him in such a compromising position.

But no. Here he was in the dark, in a storm, held tightly against Raiden’s chest, the other HumaGear holding his chin firmly in place, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. He only had a vague image in his mind from when the lightning had struck, couldn’t actually see much, but he could feel Raiden’s gaze boring into his, like the other HumaGear was looking right into his mind. And Raiden could see him, couldn’t he, with just a few adjustments to his visual system—and on top of that, his body was reacting very eagerly to being pressed up against the other HumaGear. It just wasn’t fair.

In the darkness, Raiden chuckled again. “Called it.” Fuwa could hear the grin in his voice. “Knew you wanted me.” The hand on his chin shifted a little to brush a thumb over his cheek, “The look on your face right now…” The other HumaGear’s voice came closer, his hair brushing Fuwa’s forehead as he leaned in, and Fuwa found himself fighting the urge to push forward, to seek out those smartass lips in the darkness, “You look so good…” The way he said it sounded almost like a human contemplating a piece of food, but… Not in a bad way. Somehow. Fuwa bit the inside of his cheek hard, trying to focus. He needed to get out of here. He was already in enough trouble with his bosses, he did need to be adding to the list.

Then, without warning, the arm around his waist slid downward, and the other HumaGear’s hand was on his ass, squeezing tightly, pulling him closer. A surprised gasp broke from his mouth, but it faded into a soft groan when Raiden didn’t let go, instead giving get another firm squeeze. “All of you is good…” The playful amusement in the voice just made his heart pound even faster. The hand on his chin moved again, positioning his face in a way that he just knew was right in front of the other HumaGear’s. “Mmmm… Think I like that expression even more…” Another squeeze, and he swore Raiden’s fingers were digging between the cheeks, even through his trousers. Even worse, the other HumaGear’s hips shifted slightly, rubbing against him, and his lips parted with a small moan before he could stop himself, his lids drooping—not that he could’ve seen anything with them open. “… Yup.” There was a small bit of satisfaction that Raiden’s voice was slightly uneven, too, “Definitely like this one better.”

His hips moved again, in time with another rough squeeze, and Fuwa let out a small whimper. Instead of trying to push away, his hands latched onto the other HumaGear’s jacket, clutching tightly. “P… Please…” Another squeeze of his ass, followed by a light, playful smack, and all sense abandoned him, “… Kiss me…”

Laughter rumbled somewhere in front of him, “You want it, him?” The hand disappeared from his chin, and Raiden shifted against him, repositioning to begin kneading his ass with both hands and hold Fuwa flush against him at the same time, “Hmmm…” The sound came closer, the other HumaGear was leaning in again, “… You do it.”

All the blood rushed to Fuwa’s head, his heart positively leaping in his ribs. Him? Start the… Raiden was clearly comfortable feeling him up like this, why couldn’t he…? But then the other HumaGear squeezed even tighter, grinding against him again, and all thoughts fell out the window.

He didn’t know exactly where Raiden was in the darkness, so he tilted forward slowly, carefully as he could while the other HumaGear thoroughly felt up his ass, trying to find him. They bumped noses first, then foreheads as Fuwa tried to reposition. Raiden had the decency to at least not move his head, and after a bit of fumbling…

The moment their lips connected, Fuwa felt awkward. It was stupid to be nervous when Raiden already had his hands on his backside, squeezing hard, but… His mouth moved uncertainly against the other HumaGear’s, who was surprisingly steady, considering the aggressiveness of his other actions, letting Fuwa hesitantly brush lips over his.

Fuwa wasn’t sure how long they went on like that. He was aware of the rain and the bursts of lightning for a bit, but they soon faded to the back, until the whole world was almost just the two of them. He only vaguely noticed when Raiden eased off on gripping at his ass, instead letting his eyes fully close and embracing the darkness.

Until the lights came back on.

It was Raiden who pulled away, untangling himself with ease and taking a few steps back. Fuwa barely caught himself on the nearby shelf that he had tripped over earlier when he toppled forward—he’d settled into leaning his full weight on the other HumaGear without even realising it. Floundering a little, he dragged his head back up to look at Raiden in bewilderment, his other hand reaching towards the other HumaGear, wanting to pull him close again. Why was he…?

“Ah ah…” Raiden’s hand caught his arm by the wrist, gently pushing it back down, and the other HumaGear stepped closer again, just slightly, those strong fingers brushing Fuwa’s cheek to tuck under his chin once more, holding his face so that their eyes met, “Later.” Raiden told him firmly, “You have work to do with the power back on, don’t you?” With that, he gave Fuwa a teasing smirk and a small chuck under the chin, then stepped away, turning and disappearing through a door before the human could say a word.

Leaving Fuwa alone to process what had just happened.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yay! I got it done! At last! Why are these so long? I dunno. I also dunno if that counts as ‘tentative,’ but Raiden always seems to scare the tentative right out of my writing. ^^;

Anyway, I am still up for doing these if y’all don’t mind it taking me a very long time…

send me a number and I will (very, very slowly) write something

[cosmosfated]

  TWENTY SEVEN DAYS.  That’s how long he had stayed in the ward.

  Just shy of a month, just shy of four weeks.

  It wasn’t bad, per se. The people were... nice. They understood, though Fleur knew it was one of their jobs to understand to the best of their ability. The people that he was with also were extremely nice, when they weren’t having their own troubles. He wasn’t sure whether or not to expect the worst or go into it with high hopes. He wasn’t sure whether to be himself there or to be a bit more restrained, in order to trick people into thinking he was better off than he was, better off than he knows people thought he was supposed to be.

  He remembers going into it afraid. He remembers walking into that establishment and having his guardian, having Whisper sign him up for the psychiatric ward for care and being afraid for his life. He’d never been in one of these before. He didn’t know what to expect. And oh, this was long before his madness had taken a grip on him again. So there wasn’t that to worry about (yet). He remembers being afraid of the walls. The staff. The fellow people in the ward with him. 

  They told him to relax, and he remembers being even more afraid for a couple days. His roommate was a lovely lady that couldn’t have been older than twenty one, human;   Fleur didn’t ask her reasons for being here, she didn’t ask his, they left it where it was. She introduced herself as Cass. Cass said she had been there for months now. She told him that the staff would take great care of him, but she couldn’t really help the fear of being there for a first time. It’s a bit scary, she had told him. Being here when you’re so young. Being here and being part of the media. She had smiled then and said yes, she knew of him from the television, from the news, but she doesn’t judge. The two of them made fast friends. He really liked Cass. She was a nice introduction. Three days in, she was someone irreplaceable to him.

  Five days in, he was starting to settle into the routine. Taking his medicine was normal. Going to therapy was normal. Talking to someone about what was really bothering him, now that was hard. No one really believed him. That’s why he kept being told that he had stay longer than the two weeks initially. Dying countless times, the death of innocents on your hands, madness so sickening that it would make a chill run down your back, eldritch abominations, pacts with keepers, enchanted weapons, other worlds. Who would believe him? He’s practically gone insane in their eyes. He eventually gave into their words and said they were just dreams. Just dreams that he had due to the medications. Dreams and nightmares. Oh how does he wish that was all it was. 

  And of course, there was... not hurting himself.

  Nightmares is all they were. That’s what he told them. That’s what they wanted to hear, in the first week and a half. For that first little while, that’s what they were. Nightmares that made him unable to get restful sleep. Waking up in the middle of the night, frightened and tossing and turning, but nothing more. They were being frightfully nice to him. It scared him. 

  And then one night after about a week and a half, his magic flared up and he lashed out against the staff that were trying to help him calm down. He had dug his magically enhanced claws into his skin and tore down, clawed away at himself. Clawed, clawed, clawed away until he could feel nothing but numbness and blood down his arms and chest and the wounds glowed with purple light against his will. The burn of Perseverance was agony and beautiful wonder when he wanted to feel anything, just anything against the moonlight and emptiness, but it still burned and he wanted it to stop. Maybe that’s when the staff there finally began to learn that he wasn’t joking. That he was telling the truth about at least some of it. 

  A part of him howled and laughed and cried all at once towards the moonlight, and he could see Cass out of the corner of his vision that night, and she looked... scared. Not of him, but rather for him. It was a strange feeling, seeing someone being afraid for him instead of being afraid of him. So he laughed and laughed and laughed some more, howled like a madman as his mind threatened to break underneath the weight of his LV that even just a smidgen more would tip over the edge into madness. They didn’t get him to calm down for at least two hours, but when they finally got him to calm down, it was sudden. With a crash into sudden serenity and awareness of self. With staring at the people around him and apologizing for causing a ruckus and trying to give his word to prevent from doing that again. 

  The very next day, he was in and out of tests. So many tests. They thought he was struggling with some version of brief psychotic disorder that is so strong when it shows up that it disrupts everything that he’s doing and can cause him and everyone around him harm. Thus the reason for extended stay, yet again. More days, more concern, more days without his phone, without contact with the rest of the world, without his garden, without his pokemon, without his friends.

  It’s so suffocating.

  Cass had approached him after a few days of extensive therapy and tests and medicine treatment with a snack, though she had checked with the doctors to see if she could offer it to him in the first place. “Hey, Fleur. You look like you’re ran pretty ragged.”

  He looked up from his place at the bed, still scratching at the bandages that are irritating the places where he had scratched himself rather raw. “There’s so many tests. I’ve tried to explain what that episode was. They don’t believe me. My medicine is fine. I don’t think I’m psychotic... mad, maybe... wait, is that the same thing as psychotic?”

  Cass laughed, somewhat awkwardly. “I... can’t speak for that, but it may fall on the spectrum?” She took a seat on the chair nearby, resting her head on the palm of her hand.

  Fleur sighed rather heavily, taking the snack, a nice apple, and bites into it.

  “You know, you definitely look healthier than when you came in here.” Cass said after a few minutes of silence. “You’re probably still afraid of this place, I would be too in your situation, but... you seem like you’re getting better. You might be out in a month or so. As long as you’re recovering nicely from whatever put you in here to begin with. You know?”

  He went quiet, thinking about what he knows put him in here to begin with. Too much to think about, there. Too much to consider. Too much to put him in the ground. He’s actually kind of glad that he considered doing this, but he’s also nervous that because he had that meltdown, they won’t let him out of here. Not until they figure out what’s wrong with him, at least, and that might be forever. He shuddered. Don’t consider that. “I know. Thanks, Cass.”

  Another few days go by.

  The tests started calming down. They all seem satisfied with some answer they’ve gotten from him. He doesn’t know what they’ve gotten out of him, his answers haven’t changed, but maybe they’ve just found something they’ve come to accept. Or maybe they’ve just come to accept that he’s a little off his rocker. That would be bad for him. Worry gnaws at him, now. 

  He didn’t really know what to do with the information that they had gotten some of what they intended to get from him. It meant that he had complied with what they wanted. It meant something bad, usually. It meant something had gone wrong. That’s what it meant for doctors! That’s his experiences with doctors! The worry grows. But nothing happens, not for a while. Therapy continues. Medicine continues. Friends are easy.

  Smiling is easy.

  Around a week until he left, he had another lapse of reality. 

  But this one, he was unresponsive to everything outside of himself for hours on end. Nothing could get through to him. Not music. Not touch. Not even the mention of family members or friends. He was growling and snapping and snarling at everything and everyone that came close to him, sometimes whimpering, for the entire time he wasn’t himself. He only snapped out of it after a few hours and then sat down and apologized for another hour, claiming that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he didn’t have any control over himself. In reality, he truly didn’t. But they didn’t know anything about that. 

  They put him through some more tests and more therapy. He didn’t see Cass for a while after that. He did notice Cass looking much more tired after seeing him like that though... he had wondered why but he didn’t have the chance to ask before he was ushered into a different room.

  After a few days of being taken care of, he heard talk about being given leave to go home. His spirits soared, but then they sank again. It’s been so long. He had gotten used to people taking care of him. How could he get used to taking care of himself again? It would be so difficult. He’d need help. So much help. How could he bear to rely on them for something like this? Fear took over. How could he do something like that to them?

  “Cass?”

  She had looked up, the hour before he was due to be discharged. “What’s up, party boy?”

  “... What if I just end up back here?”

  “Well. You know you’ve got a friend here.”

  Fleur smiled. He does, doesn’t he? That’s a little less scary. “Thanks, Cass.”

  Upon seeing his soulmate again, he couldn’t hold anything back. He wants to go home. He wants to go back to see his sister, his sibling. His garden. His pokemon. He wants to see his friends. He wants to see everything that he’s missed. He’ll do whatever it takes to stay better.

  He’ll do whatever it takes. He’ll get better, and stay better. He hopes.

[scoundrels-in-love]

The Chariot, pretty please?

I could never say no to you, even without pretty please.

Additionally, there’s Easter Egg (certain House words and what they allude to) in this fic, courtesy of @slipsthrufingers and her The Tides which you should definitely go and read. She also technically spawned this AU, so there’s that. Also a thank you goes to  @aliveanddrunkonsunlight for one of the scenes.

___

The Chariot: victory, animals, awareness, arrows, aggression

Fortunes from Arranged Marriage/Enemies to Lovers/Soulmate AU I will probably never write in full. Except I guess I sort of did? Also on AO3.

Victory

Their marriage is a war of subtler kind.

Not quite as covert as games played at court, for they meet in the yard almost daily to take up swords and leave bruises as tally marks on each other, but on this battlefield, most bleeding is done from one’s soul.

Jaime prides himself in doing so rarely, collects each glare and sneer, every time blankness frosts over her face to hide the hurt, wraps them up in bundles of victory with the red of her angry, splotchy blush. Stockpiles them in neat rows within the room he has made just for his hatred of this union - and the self-righteous wife of his, too.

But somewhere along the way, between all the fighting they do back to back (even when they are miles apart) out of sheer necessity, among truths that pour out of him like bad blood and leave him drained but almost healing, his goals gradually change.

He begins to yearn for another nod of approval, a glance that’s not seeped in disdain like bitterest tea known to man, for corners of her large mouth to not turn down as deeply and so often. A smile is earned through an entire campaign.

But the ground he tries to advance on is littered with rocks he threw at her. The gold chain of his old victories wraps around his throat, slowly chokes out the life of tender shoots of something else that tries to sprout between the two of them. And sometimes he goes back to old cruelties because it’s familiar, if uncomfortable armor against impossibilities. Changing the direction of rivers in her heart seems too monumental a task even for him.

(Yet he tries, tongue tripping over the insult he said yesterday painting her gaze just a little colder than three days before.)

Aggression

At first, she sleeps with her sword close, listening for any noise on the other side of door that separates their chambers. Just because she intends to honor the vows and alliance hatched from them, vulnerable and trembling like any other newborn, does not mean Kingslayer will. What is one more oath cut by a sword in vulnerable back of someone you’re meant to protect? Aggression simmers in air between them both, as intangible as heatwave and as sturdy as fortress of dislike they’ve build for each other.

But their personal enemies become their common ones, then some they earn jointly and at one point, she realizes they only fight together these days. There is almost (not almost, there is) safety in it and definitely trust - which she doesn’t know when she surrendered, but she can only hope it will never get thrown bloody and battered in her face. With each passing month, it grows a little sturdier, able to weather even stronger storms of doubts.

Sometimes he even shoulders his way into battles that are only her own - when someone japes about her looks, he incinerates them with a word or two (and there is that story of a golden punch she’s yet to confirm with him).  When men sneer at her Brienne of the Rock as if she’s become part of it, part of Westerlands. Part of his family. Jaime corrects them, reminds that she’s of Tarth and she wishes there wouldn’t be a pang of something unnameable (but frightfully alike hurt). But why would he not, if it isn’t one of the few things she brought to this union?

On those evening, she beats the training dummy with more vigor than usually.

Animals

When Jaime was a child, he thought the Houses with beasts in their sigils were certainly the most impressive. He didn’t loathe the Lion of Lannisters yet, hadn’t grown into the image either. And what is a wheat field to dragon? It had seemed to him as if some Houses wanted to announce they were lesser.

After meeting Brienne, he decides Tarth sigil is as unsightly as its only heir. It is childish, especially considering how he holds no love for lions anymore, but truly, Tarth is trying too hard, with the suns and crescents on the rose and blue reminiscent of dawn. Which makes sense with their House words, too - First Light in the Dark, they promise to be.

When he jokes about it, his wife explains that it stands for the lighthouse Evenstars have maintained for centuries in a tone that would make a lesser man feel chastised. It’s one of the first times she speaks more than a sentence to him, even if it is dripping in restrained disdain even more than the rest. And somehow, he keeps thinking back to her House words from time to time.

Perhaps because he starts to see the light of the line, ironically. Her face is the first he can discern when he comes to after losing his hand, and her pale head bobs above the murky waters of fever and pain, leading him onward. Her honor and righteous nature makes the dishonor surrounding him feel even darker, yet gives him just enough light, direction to chase it like Galleythat guides to west. He cannot even blame their soulmarks for this (like he blames it for the restless pattern of his heart around her these days), it is merely who she is, and he isn’t only one led by her.

Jaime’s opinion changes on other matters, too - he had thought what is wheat field to dragon, but what is a wolf or a lion to the sun or the moon? Even a dragon pales into comparison. He has seen skulls of those, in the depths of Red Keep, but the sun shines on him still as it shone on the beast’s hide.

The sigil, he decides in the end, is as magnificent as Brienne and sometimes, he dreams of a lion-gold painted child who bears it. Another late and unforeseen side-effect of their soulmate bond, surely. (That fills him with such soft longing he wonders if she’d taste it on his lips, should she kiss him.)

Awareness

Through the first months of marriage, Brienne is more aware of her body than she has ever been in her life. Particularly when she is around Jaime Lannister. Every inch of skin seems to be prickling with reminder its stretched over limbs that are too long, blood pumps hot with anger through her body that’s too tall and too broad and her face often burns with blushes, highlighting her ugly features which cannot hide her emotions.

He greatly delights in pointing all of it out, if not with words as sleek as a blade, then with a twist of his mouth or cocked eyebrow. She wants nothing more than to remind him this mannish body might not be made for songs of love (something she’s come to terms with, Brienne insists in the dead of night as she lays awake in her bed, married but barely kissed), but it’s perfectly fine for a warrior.

And then she does. Brienne doesn’t win the bout, but what she gains instead is reclamation of her comfort in her husband’s presence. Maybe because the next time she sees Jaime, she knows of bruise she rightfully placed on his shoulder or because something shifts between them - their marriage is still a raging storm they weather separately, but the wind is angled just a little from the side now. (She hates the thought Jaime’s attitude might control such a force of nature.)

Much later, the awareness comes back, but with the flavor of heady, sweet wine that sends ghost of dizziness through her, a lot like his proximity does now. Part of her doesn’t even think of her ugliness, would believe that heat of his shoulder almost burns hers when they sit too close. The sane half of her laughs at her, in a voice that sounds just like her lord husband’s. She isn’t sure which makes her think of her soulmark more, not in the betrayed anger of initial discovery, but wistful sort of resignation.

Brienne wishes she could be angry still.

Arrows

Jaime is not fond of archery - he is not terrible at it, but nothing about it entices him to train enough to excel. He prefers the straightforward honesty of a sword, face to face with your opponent. He knows Brienne does, too, long before he even meets her.

So, he thinks it is ironic that arrow may be the thing that takes her away from him, even before she is his. (But he has been hers for ages, she just doesn’t know. He didn’t. Now she never may.)

It’s just a rumor, a throwaway line about one of generals being perhaps mortally wounded by archer. He should be concerned, of course, because any such loss is a complication they don’t need, but there is no other name that comes to him, only Brienne Brienne Brienne in a damning chant, as if he had entered mourning already. No, they would tell him if his wife was dying, if she had perished already. But no raven has come yet and his night is haunted by thought of her dying alone, dying.

So the very next morning, he rides out, duties be damned. In fact, he is merely picking different oath to honor now, the one he said in the Sept truly a lifetime ago. The man that stood there perished years ago along with his right hand, but there is a Jaime Lannister breathing still and he pledged himself, his love that had not taken root yet, to her with the only kiss they have shared. And if he has to claim second one from bloodstained lips, willing his life into her somehow, then so be it.

When he rides into the camp at nightfall, unrest ripples through it as if he had plunged himself into a pond. He doesn’t stop until he comes to her tent; the chest with the gem that lured him beneath the surface.

He hurries in and then freezes two steps later, because she is there, looking up alarmed from where she has been pouring over letters. Perhaps even one to tell him of her state and whomever might be injured in her stead. “Jaime?” She asks and he tries to remember how to breathe, even the sigh of relief hasn’t got past something dislodging in his chest, wobbling there and looking for an edge to fall over.

“Jaime, what are you doing here? Are you alright? Did something happen at the Rock?” Brienne stands up, frown on her face, but one of concern, and her eyes ask for an answer to riddle his presence has brought. He shakes his head and she makes her way toward him, only slightly more at ease.

Jaime sways in the small space between same and change, between the waterfall of feelings that could take him crashing on the rocks and safety of playing it off with a joke, something neutral. Anything but the truth.

He has jumped cliffs for lesser things.

“I heard you were hurt,” he offers, lamely, feeling as if he’s ten again, telling truths that make for shoddy excuses to get out of scolding.

“The rumors of my injury are greatly exaggerated, though sadly same cannot be said of Ser -”

“You are injured?” His voice breaks on the jagged truth and he looks her over again for a sign of harm, but sees nothing obvious.

“Just a scratch that should be healed by next battle. Nothing that will impede our victory. Jaime, why are you here? Are there news from the Starks?”

He thinks of when he asked her a month ago if she hadn’t dreamed of love from songs before agreeing so simply to their union of convenience. She had thought him mocking once more, her face darkening, and reminded him nothing about her choice had been easy. And then, soothed by something in his expression, told him she knew she was neither the maid nor the knight of legends old. I am made for war, Jaime, but no one will ride across the battlefield just to hear my voice.

He could not tell her different then, could not risk to breach the peace warmed by morning sun, but he cannot stop his free fall now. (Unless she doesn’t want him, not even want to want to him. Then he will collide with the rocks below where water turns to foam and never speak of it again.)

“I thought my wife was injured, perhaps dying, and had to hear her scolding me at least once more.”

Her face is blank, flimsy lace of confusion around the edges, and then he can watch the dawn in her blue eyes, as light of realization begin to shine in them, but just as Jaime starts to smile, the sun sinks back into the oceans and her gaze dims.

“Brienne.” He hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s pleading, because he doesn’t want to beg anymore, not even her. Especially not her. She wouldn’t want him to and it’s one of the things he loves about her. But as Brienne takes a step back, shaking her head, he thinks he would do just about anything to have her hear him out.

“No,” her voice is small, almost comically so, as her shoulders hunch as if Brienne is trying to hide from herself, from him (he hates it), before she straightens up and sets her jaw mulishly, staring him down. “No.”

“No because you do not feel the same or no because you think this cannot be true?” There is challenge in his tone as he chases her deeper into the tent. Her silence is an answer, one he can chip away at with an almost patient hand. They sat in their personal castles, bridges up, for so long, but now meeting in neutral grounds isn’t enough for him anymore, he wants to live in her fortress, to be present in every room and fill it with love. He will do just that, infiltrate the depths of the keep gently and with persistence that rivals her stubbornness, if only he knows she would want it, if she dared to.

“I did not ride for an entire day just to make a cruel joke, wife. I thought we were past that, that you trusted me.” Jaime catches his own hurt before it taints his tone too deeply - this is not about him, not in this way. He wants to soothe her instead, reaches out and cups her cheek gently, Brienne’s exhale soft and trembling.

“I do,” she tells him quietly, with firmness and sincerity that buries itself right into his chest, the force of it finally freeing the half-stuck something and he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet, their eyes on even level now. There’s sunlight lighting up the blue once more, tentative but no less blinding and he feels drunk on it.

“Then trust me in this, too. Like I trust you.” His whisper caresses her lips, just a moment before his own follow suit.

In the end, she catches him mid-fall as she always does.

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: Atonement chapter 14

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3

Chapter summary:  The darkness has been purged from the basement. As Ienzo begins to recover in earnest, Even feels stagnant.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Even sits the next day, waiting for the phone call. He feels numb. Better to be numb in this moment. He’ll be able to make better decisions if he can’t feel. He keeps Aerith on speed dial. Mostly, he tries to keep it together.

It doesn’t take long. The phone rings and he hears Demyx sobbing, a sound that shouldn’t be familiar, but is. “It’s alright,” Even says. “I know. We’re coming.”

Call Aerith. Wrangle Dilan--who protests and snarls at Even after that argument, but submits immediately when he tells him Ienzo is in trouble.

It also helps that Even twisted his arm painfully.

They go down and down and down those stairs. He doesn’t feel anything, seeing it again. The air is dank, damp, and musty, but there’s no smell of darkness.

They must’ve done it, then.

He feels almost possessed, punching in those numbers, not listening to Dilan’s protests. About fifteen meters from the offices, he sees them, the blood, Demyx doing compressions. “Take care of him,” Even hisses at Dilan.

But when he tries to move Demyx, they quickly discovered he’s injured too, blood gushing from his right arm. When Dilan tries to get him to walk, he can’t bear his own weight, and when the man heaves him up, Demyx actually resists, reaching with his good arm towards Ienzo, something shattered in his eyes. But it’s an easy fight, and Dilan carries him away.

Keep him alive.

Don’t look at the blood. Do compressions, keep his heart beating. Don’t notice the fact that his eyes are still half-open and that he looks like a broken doll. Don’t notice that it sounds like it hurts him to breathe. Don’t think about death, that the boy’s tempted it too many times now, eventually it’s bound to take.

Keep him alive.

She’s there before long, there to help, always. Her eyes are frantic. “The second time,” she says. “Even, I don’t--”

He doesn’t listen. He waits.

It’s a harder fight, takes longer to stabilize him in order to move. His own hands are trembling. Aeleus takes him and they, so slowly, put Ienzo in bed. Aerith keeps working, keeps trying to heal the boy.

Even checks on Demyx. He’s still so numb, but the boy isn’t. He tries to stand, to cross over to Even, only to immediately drop to the floor with a soft groan. “Oh, bother,” Even says. “Here. Right. Up we go.” He sits the boy down, checks his wounds. Someone has wrapped them up.

“What’s going on,” Demyx asks, full of panic. “How--”

“Getting yourself worked up will not help the situation,” Even says dully. “Let me see your leg.” He feels at it. Without machinery, it’s hard to be completely sure. It seems to just be a torn hamstring.

“Even,” he presses. “He’s not--”

“No,” Even says. “Ienzo lives yet.”

“You say that as if it’s not guaranteed.”

What does he seriously expect? “His condition is quite critical. Aerith is doing what she can. The situation he’s in… it’s quite extreme. We’re still not fully sure of the extent of the damage.”

“He didn’t know he was doing it,” Demyx says. He’s crying, hiccuping. “He was taking them out of the pain. Out of the memory, like he did for me.”

“And the interference of darkness doubtless doesn’t help.”

“I didn’t know either,” Demyx says. “I just--I thought--I didn’t see anything, and then when I did see he was getting weak I tried to get him out of there. But then I got attacked.”

“You’re not at fault.”

“Yes I am.” His voice is sharp, full of razors. “I shouldn’t have let him do this at all--”

“As you said. This would’ve happened sooner or later. Ienzo, in his humanity, has become quite impulsive.”

“Still, I--”

“I believe he was more sensitive to their pain than he let on. He always was acutely aware of darkness. When he was a little boy, he would tell me he could hear the screams. I always thought it was trauma. Now I'm not so sure.” He’s barely aware of the words.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“You two were the only ones equipped to end this suffering, and willing to do it. I cannot be mad that has a price.” He can feel it, deep in the pit of his being. It’s all over. The smell of darkness is gone, and the basement is just a basement.

He isn’t mad at Demyx. He knows the boy tried his best.

He wishes he could feel.

Ienzo is dying. He can feel that.

Does he take the pain now, or later?

Demyx is still talking. “I knew her. Subject X. Her name was Skuld.”

Their first true victim. The thought of her large orange eyes. “Really?”

“We were both Dandelions.”

There are never coincidences, are there? “I did think that was a needlessly poetic name.” Even takes his hand. “This has obviously been quite traumatic for you.”

“What about you?”

It feels like getting slapped. “It is never easy to see Ienzo in danger,” he says haltingly. “I admit I do not care for this new self-sacrificing streak of his.”

“You raised him.”

Even stares at him. Is his numbness obvious? “You know how I feel about Ansem’s paternal instincts. What was I to do, let the boy go rabid?” He sighs. “Like many days of our past, that was a harsh one. All of a sudden I’m presented with a bloody, traumatized child and expected to make it all better. Not unlike now. At least you’re speaking to me. It took him close to a year to talk.” A voice he may not hear again.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You should get some rest. You must be exhausted.”

“But what if he--”

“Should the situation worsen, I will rouse you.” He stands. “He would not want you to push yourself for his sake.” Not if he may be all that’s left of the boy.

Even leaves, feeling his body weighing him down, the walls not having straight lines. He opens the door to Ienzo’s room. The girl is still hard at work. He can’t think of anything to say. He leaves. He sees Aeleus, the man’s white gloves stained with blood--whose?

“Even?” the man says. “Even, friend?”

He feels the pain starting in him, sharp. “Aeleus, I’m afraid--”

He steps forward just in time to catch Even as he falls.

---

He’s been put in his bed. There’s a cloth on his forehead, which is splitting. The light hurts his eyes.

There’s someone in the room with him. He tries to focus.

“Easy, there,” says a voice.

Even groans a little. “...Ansem. Where is--”

“I’m afraid everyone else is indisposed at the moment. You must deal with me.” He hands him a glass of water. “When was the last time you slept?”

“The stress, I’m afraid, triggered another… spell. I can’t simply  keep it together now.” He forces himself to sit up, drinks all the water down. “Do I… want to ask about Ienzo?”

Ansem sighs, a heavy sound. He knots his hands. “It’s every bit as bad as it was the first time. But the girl is optimistic. Says she can feel him.”

He feels nauseous.

“They ended it. That boy, his unrelated lover. This wasn’t their responsibility, and they still were able to fix things. All while we… wrote it off as collateral.” He shakes his head slowly. “I trust in him too. He had such a connection with the darkness. Purging it… can finally give him peace.”

Even isn’t sure what he feels. It’s strong, it’s bittersweet. It’s painful.

“We’re running out of chances with him,” Ansem says.

“I know.”

“Did you help them do this?”

“I… gave Demyx medicine, to try and save Ienzo. I have no idea if I was successful. I… he…” He can’t speak. “Ienzo was stuck. He was willing to do this. They both were. Like you said. Collateral. I did not want it to happen. But otherwise… the boy would be haunted. As Demyx said, we live here. We live with the darkness we’ve made. And he was always so sensitive to it. So yes. I helped the boy. If sparing them helps spare him… then I am for it.” He’s breathing hard. “They were all victims, Ansem. All of them.”

Let him go to save him?”

“He’s a grown man, Ansem,” Even says. “But this is more than just Ienzo. It always was. Could I have put up a fight? Dragged you into it? Would it have stopped him?” He’s woozy, faint. “Maybe. Maybe not. Ienzo won’t be manipulated by anyone anymore. Let him be stubborn. He needs it.”

He must sound absolutely insane, because Ansem just gently pushes Even back down. “You need rest, Even,” he says. “You’ll feel more centered.”

“...I’ll try.”

---

Even sleeps a long time. He feels unstable, strange, a wretch. Guilt washes over him, even after Ienzo stabilizes, even as they wait. Did he do the right thing, giving the boy the tools to destroy himself? Or did he help them? Did he help those Heartless? Why does he feel so guilty even after assisting in this good deed?

After a week or so of this wallowing, Aeleus intervenes. “You’re getting up,” he says briskly.

“I’ve no need to listen to you.”

“I’m stronger than you,” is all Aeleus says. “So we can do this willingly, or not so.”

Even can tell from his eyes that he means it.

“Go bathe. I will wait here.” He sits on the chaise, crosses his legs. “I left out a change of clean clothes near the tub.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because clearly at this moment in time you cannot look after yourself. And we look after one another.”

“...I’m frightfully pathetic.”

“Go.” He points towards the bathroom door.

The warm water feels good against his skin. He's greasy, vaguely gritty. It takes a bit of scrubbing to pull himself together, especially his hair. To do all this is absolutely exhausting, the reliance on the body frustrating. Yet more work to comb out his hair. He really has to do something about it. Most unbecoming. When he dresses, he notices Aeleus has left him a new pack of elastics.

It feels odd, to bind up his hair after so many years. Odd and habitual, Llke he's not quite himself. The old Even was much too passive, too vain and petty for his own good, so aggravatingly self-righteous.

And what of this one? Is he making good choices? How to determine what is good and what is not anymore? He feels so like a child, learning the difference between good and evil.

When he emerges, he finds Aeleus has made them both breakfast and coffee. For too long Even stares at it, almost uncomprehending, before finally forcing himself to eat.

"It's like the old days," Aeleus says. "I remember quite often that I'd used to need to feed all of you, tempt you with favorites like you were kids. Otherwise you'd all work yourselves into the ground."

"I'm a doctor--you would think I'd know better, all my wittering on." He shakes his head.

"Knowing and doing are two different things." He rests his cup on its saucer. "How do you feel?"

"The pain has… faded." He touches his breastbone. "I do hope I'm nearly there. This is awfully inconvenient."

"...Other than that."

"A rather pregnant question."

"I'd like to know." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"In short--guilty." The damp hair against his back is cold in this barely-heated room. "I feel I handed Ienzo the tools to destroy himself. How can I allow it? Yet--doing so, I enabled them to help our poor victims find peace. I don't want to continue to allow the poor boy to throw himself away for others. There must be some other way. Isn't there? All these kids know is sacrifice. It's… so sad."

"Perhaps there can be a future where it is not so."

"I dearly wish for that."

"We can make it happen, Even."

"How? The committee refused my help--and they're the de facto government. And I'm afraid bigger picture experiments are too indulgent when we're sitting here freezing."

Aeleus blinks. "Maybe that's it," he says softly. "We can fix this place--leave it for future generations. But there's one thing you need to work on above all." He takes Even's hand. "Recover. Learn to be human again."

If only it were that simple. "I shall surely try."

---

Again, Even writes. He stays out of that frigid lab, sits in silvery sunlight. He writes of how he feels, how his body responds to these emotions. He tries to parse his own psychological state. It's not an easy task. It might be the most difficult, tedious work he's ever done, and he can't be sure he's getting much of anywhere. It all seems like going in circles.

He tries to spend time with the others. Aeleus and Demyx are the most amenable to this, the most willing; and of course Ienzo is a captive audience. But Ansem and Dilan… the latter has been avoiding him since the basement, and the former is often nowhere to be found.

To mend a bond, both parties have to be willing, after all.

The cold seems to ease somewhat, snow yielding sleet, yielding rain. Ienzo sleeps. Demyx continues studying, always with that sitar in hand; Aerith comes by, teaches him simple spells to take care of the boy's fallen form. Even observes this all happening. Demyx is so nervous, his hands trembling. He shapes magic gently, cautiously, getting what he needs done. Then, facing Aerith with something like wonder, "I can… feel him. He's really going to be--" He cries, and she embraces him. Good. The boy can use more friends.

He misses that sense of awe, of fixing what's broken. Then again, he never was that way in the limited time he actually practiced medicine. People were things to him, inconveniences.

And now? He can't be nurturing, it simply isn't his nature. But perhaps he can help ease the strain, so to speak. So many others are in agony, the psychological consequences scarring them for life. His knowledge of psychopharmacology is limited. But he has time, and a library. He reads, studies compounds, scavenges for materials in the marketplace.

He puts on his white coat, ties back his hair.

Even experiments.

---

The weeks pass, one after the other.

This is the sort of work that takes time, patience. His study of replicas gave him more insight to the human body, how it might react to certain compounds. This is still something that will require testing. But it’s all he has, so he moves forward. He studies the physiological impacts of trauma, of darkness--scars and burns. He tests treatments on his own myriad scars. Not much can help him, but maybe someone else.

They keep watch over Ienzo. It’s been nearly six weeks again. Demyx claims he can feel him, his energy, but the boy is new to his studies, and the EEG machine isn’t giving Even much to work with. But, again, Demyx is right.

(Demyx has been right about far too many things lately.)

Almost six weeks to the day, Ienzo wakes. He’s with Ansem when it happens, and only an hour or so later does anybody see fit to tell him. “This is all becoming rather routine now, isn’t it?” Even says coolly when he sees the boy at his door. “Come here. Sit. You shouldn’t be up and about without someone properly looking at you.”

“Demyx says I’m fine.”

“Demyx has three weeks of novice healing training. I have a medical degree.” He feels at Ienzo’s vitals, finds that the boy is actually smiling a little. “You’re in awfully good spirits, all things considering.”

“I’m so… relieved.”

Even takes a better look at him. The utter agony that has been in the boy’s eyes since he reformed is gone. This act, reckless and destructive though it was, has given him more than any of them could. “Well I should hope so,” he says crisply. “Your body is not a renewable resource, you know. I should not like to make you a replica. It’s no substitute for the real thing. Not when so much is still not proven.”

He sighs. “Well, you needn’t worry. My power is well and truly gone--and the lexicon is now a mere notebook.” He shakes his head. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“No. I should hope not.” Even sits next to him on the chaise. “It’s about time you were able to try living for yourself,” he says.

Ienzo nods once. “It’s terrifying,” he says. “I was always under someone’s purview or another--now to be under my own? It’s been a… learning experience. Truthfully I do not know what I want .”

“You have time,” Even says. “That is, unless you end up destroying yourself again. You won’t get a third chance, Ienzo.”

“I’m aware. And I… am trying to see myself as having worth. I’m not a tool. I’m a person. That in and of itself is overwhelming.”

“It is.”

The boy twists the tie of his robe in one hand. “So strange, to be warm again,” he says.

“Yes. I’d forgotten how eternal these winters seem.” He pauses. “You should be careful. I have no doubt that you’ll catch the first thing someone carries in.”

A derelict sigh. Then he smiles. “Quite. Well, if it’s all the same… I’d very much like to get cleaned up.”

“You go on.”

For a second it seems Ienzo will get up; but then he winces and clutches at his head.

“...Child?”

“Headache,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

It doesn’t.

---

It becomes clear that this recovery is much harder on Ienzo than the last; because the headaches don’t go away. It takes him time to bounce back, time to gather his strength. Aerith does her own examination and insists there’s nothing physical about the headaches.

“Well you did wear down your will twice,” she says to Ienzo, in a slightly scolding tone. “Of course it’s going to be a lot harder for it to actually move your body, and this is how that manifests.”

And Even has no working machinery to take a look at the boy. All they can do is give him medicine… insist he does nothing physically or mentally difficult… and wait. It’s clear this chafes him endlessly. If Even were constantly being poked and prodded and checked in on, given not one moment of alone time or peace, he’d bristle too. But he’d rather have the boy annoyed and frustrated rather than dead.

Demyx tries to keep his spirits up, keep him entertained, bringing him books and the like; though there’s some tension there too ( do not think about why that may be) . They’ve weathered the storm, but there will still be aftershocks.

Even still isn’t entirely sure what happened down there, what Ienzo saw. The humanity of the Heartless intrigues him; it’s possible they’ve been forever wrong about these creatures. He decides to bite the bullet and ask. “I brought you some tea. No pesky headaches today, I hope?”

Ienzo takes the cup from him, setting aside the novel. “No. At least, not yet.”

He appraises him. “Your color looks good. You do look a little thin, though. We should try to get you eating more. I’m not sure how many kilos you lost--”

“My clothing doesn’t feel loose.”

“Even so. I thought you were underweight before all this happened. I’ll get you some of the leftovers from dinner, how does that sound?” He brings the boy a plate, notes that at least he seems to have some appetite. “I know what happened,” Even begins, haltingly. “But I didn’t get to hear the whole story.”

Ienzo shoots him a look. “I’m not sure I’m the source you want. That evening is very hazy to me. Demyx would probably be more accurate.”

“Hazy? How so?”

“I’ve lost my powers.” As if this explains anything.

“Yes. I can’t say I’m sorry to see them go.”

“Neither am I, but… I believe they gifted me an atypically strong sense of memory, and now that I am merely average, it feels like something of a downgrade.” He touches his brow. “Feelings, fine details, are not so clear.”

How odd… but Zexion’s abilities were always so psychic, so intangible. And the boy’s will was a Nobody’s. To have all that be gone… of course he feels different. “The average memory functions by recording, then recalling that recording, and then taping over it with the recollection. Which is why, for the ordinary person, it fades over time. If you’re not used to that sensation, of course things must seem out of place.”

A pause. “Do you think I will ever be capable of magic again?”

The last thing he needs. It’s hard to go from powerful to powerless, but does the boy still not acknowledge how destructive this all was? “...Perhaps,” he concedes. “But I forbid you from trying anything for some months. You’ve taken enough risks.”

Ienzo scowls.

“Ansem agrees with me. So, I’m sure, would Demyx. He was an absolute wreck when you were asleep.” He exhales. “This isn’t about choice, or agency. You’ve pushed the limits of your being too far. Of course we’re going to worry.”

He smiles, but it’s very cold. “This reminds me of when I was a child.”

Alright. Fine. Two can play. “Well, when you were a child, you didn’t have a death wish.” How to impart to him what was done? The boy never used to be dense.

Is he just in denial?

“Beg pardon?” Ienzo asks.

This requires gentleness, tact--things Even still is not any good at. “Part of me believes you absolutely did the right thing. On the other hand, the part of me that raised you cannot bear this impulsiveness of yours.”

“It was not an impulsive act. This was something I wanted ever since I was human--”

“But were you truly saving them? Or saving yourself?”

It’s the hesitation, the stuttering, that gives it away. “Does it matter?”

It about breaks Even’s heart. But he should’ve known--hasn’t he raised the boy to be like this? He sits next to him, takes the empty plate. “It’s time for you to let go.”

His tone is rather sharp when he says, “I have. I think you need to follow suit.”

Ienzo’s right; it’s this that has him reeling, and before he can formulate a reply, the door is swinging open and there’s Demyx, carrying a bag of books. “So I couldn’t find the third volume of Shadow of the Morning Star, but the rest were there, so--” Noticing the tension, he blinks. “Am I, uh, interrupting something.”

All the better. There’s no way Even can be neatly composed. “I was merely bringing Ienzo some lunch.” He leaves, taking the plate and cup with him, feeling something like lead in the pit of his stomach.

How to let go? How to move on? He’s hoping his new research might be of use, but in case it isn’t? Is he allowed to move on? Is he allowed to live?

(Moreover, does he want to?)

He’s in the middle of this process, still clutching Ienzo’s dishes, when he sees Dilan in the hall. For a moment they both hold eye contact before the man pushes past him.

How does Even begin fixing things?

Is it possible?

---

All questions, no answers.

There is one person in this castle who is good at such waffling.

For some weeks Even procrastinates seeking him out, but with nothing of substance to do, there's no point. Even takes a breath.

It isn’t easy to find Ansem. Even calls him twice, knowing well the man won’t answer--even for Ienzo he’s hard to get a hold of. A brilliant programmer, yet he can’t--or won’t--grasp the gummiphone.

(It makes him more accountable.)

So he searches. On foot.

It’s the thick of spring, but the castle is still damp, and it’s raining; they’ve all been passing around the same cold. It’s been nearly six months they’re all here, Even realizes. Six months of--what? Not much of anything, really. Reeling, sniping at one another. Only Ienzo and Demyx seem to have begun recovering. The rest of them feel stagnant.

He checks Ansem’s usual haunts; the lab, the library. It’s only as he’s heading towards the man’s quarters does he sees Demyx, toting his medic bag (the sight will never not surprise him). When he gets closer, he sees something heavy in the young man’s eyes, his posture slumped more than usual.

“...Boy?” Even asks. “Are you alright?”

He looks up as though surprised, then blinks once. “Even,” he says. “Do you… have some time?”

The wind seems so loud against the breezeway. “That depends. Is something going on? Is… is everyone okay?”

Demyx seems to think for a moment. Then he grasps Even’s hand and brings him back towards the sitting room. “Well I mean not really,” he says in response to Even’s question. “Alive? Yeah. Uninjured? Sure.” He sits Even down on the couch and starts building a fire. “You want tea? You hungry?” There’s something manic and not at all hospitable in the way he’s speaking.

“Boy, you’re frightening me. If you hope to cultivate a good bedside manner--”

“Ansem’s in trouble.”

All he can see is the back of the boy’s head, half shorn. He holds rumpled paper in one hand. Even can hear him breathing. He can intuit what the boy means, but still he asks, “What kind of trouble?”

“Like he…” He stays facing the hearth, but he doesn’t move to keep making the fire. “He’s… he was sick. Had a fever. I was outside, taking care of a few things, and I saw him.” He shoves the paper into the fireplace, picks up the box of matches. “Seemed to be in some kind of episode… or flashback… If I hadn’t been there when I was, I’m not sure if he might’ve--”

It feels like getting socked in the stomach. “Are you sure?”

“He said something along the lines of, “I believe I was going to do something reckless.” Which, considering how euphemistically you all talk… yeah, Even. I’m sure.” His voice hitches a little. “Ienzo’s with him. They’re talking about stuff.��� He turns to face him, finally. Demyx’s eyes are watering. “Every time I think I start to get it, shit gets a whole lot deeper and more complicated. You guys… all these weird power dynamics…” He shrugs and shakes his head.

“Don’t I know it,” Even says numbly. “I know the man has been avoiding everyone--I figured he wanted nothing to do with me. And rightfully so, all things considering.”

Demyx strikes the match. Its hiss seems particularly loud in the room; Even can’t help but flinch. He shoves it into the fireplace. “I feel so fucking weird,” he says.

“As… as do I.”

He turns. “Do you feel that way too?” he asks him. “Ienzo can’t--I--”

“I am not… well. But I don’t feel as though… that’s my only option. I’ve put the boy through enough.”

He takes a deep breath. He wipes at his eyes.

“The question is how to pull us all back together,” Even says. His own body feels so heavy; he has to lean forward on his knees. “I’ve been pondering and pondering it. Do we… deserve to pick up the pieces? And yet… our lives, after so many permutations… are still ours. That can’t be insignificant. We must… need to be here. But…” His mouth is so dry. “Boy, I’ve no idea why, or… what to do.”

“It’s gotta be pretty bad, for you to not even pretend to know something.”

“...Quite.”

Neither of them know what to say for a long time. Demyx continues to build the fire, to warm his hands; he’s shaking.

“Your record is cleaner, as it were,” Even says. “You have the excuse of your amnesia. We, on the other hand, very deliberately turned against all we stood for, in the name of… discovery. ” He spits the last word. “A decision is much heavier than a choiceless choice.”

“Aren’t you trying to be better?”

“Desperately. With every fiber of my being. But I think Ansem… would believe we’re not worth saving.”

“Why not?”

“...I’ve no idea. Come sit over here, boy. Get off the cold floor.”

After a moment, Demyx obeys. He perches next to Even. “I was there for part of it,” he admits to his lap. “Ienzo said he felt… used.”

Even sighs. “That makes sense,” he says. “Xehanort certainly did use him, as a tool. His brilliance… a bargaining chip over me.”

Demyx sniffles. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes. And then… all those years in the Organization… Zexion became very loyal. The validation he was given was much needed. Of course the boy would think, in the moment, he was doing the right thing. We all did. The darkness twisted us so. Now of course we know better. That knowledge had a price. While we’re closer to who we once were than we are our Nobodies, we still all hurt each other, tossed one another aside. Trying to reconcile those feelings is… complicated. He was deprived of a normal life, his skills used to further someone else’s agenda… not unlike you.”

“He’s gone through so much--”

“And you haven’t? And we all haven’t?”

Demyx sniffles. “Do you think we’re not worth saving?”

“Either way… we’ve been saved.”

Slowly, he nods. “Gotta make it worth it.”

“...Indeed.”

---

Hours later, Even waits. He watches, observes. Ienzo finally returns from Ansem’s quarters, pale, drawn, eyes swollen and red-rimmed. He walks like it hurts. Demyx gently takes him into his arms, guides him into the kitchen.

Even gathers himself.

It’s not a long walk, but it seems like it is. He’s not sure how he feels; he just knows it’s strong. Indignation? Disgust? Outrage? (Concern? Heartache?)

He doesn’t bother knocking on Ansem’s door; besides, it’s cracked open. He takes a deep breath, and enters.

The accused is sitting by the fire, nursing some kind of warm beverage. He looks up at the sudden noise, shakes his head a little, and says, “I suppose my humiliation is complete, then.”

Even cants his head a little to the side. Getting angry will not help at all; yet he feels it in his breast, hot and demanding. He tries to smother it. “Do you still feel ill?”

“I am physically back to normal. More or less. Demyx took good care of me. Sit, why don’t you.”

Even perches on one of the chintz chairs. “The boy says you were delirious. Is that true?”

“True enough. I’m afraid I have much less willpower than I used to. These things are so difficult to combat. Only now do I fully understand your frustration over Ienzo’s mental health.”

“From back then?”

“Quite. I know to a degree you feel it too.”

“But I’m not about to do anything about it.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve. Equally as uncertain what would’ve happened had the boy not been there. He believes I’m here for a reason.”

“Aren’t we?” He scoffs a little. “Ansem, if the universe truly wanted us dead, truly believed us irredeemable, we’d have been long gone.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”

“I do now. I’ve been handed so many clues, guided so carefully by such forces. That isn’t for nothing. As much as I would like to… curl into the science, into the known, that simply isn’t the case.”

He nods once. He stares into the flames. “I wasn’t hopeless for a long while,” he admits. “I had my rage to sustain me--then once I arrived, I had the thought of Ienzo, of atonement and you all. But…”

“Where to begin?” Even offers. He exhales. “I believe I know exactly what you mean. I was never good at kindness, as much as my heart wanted me to be. Any way  I’ve helped the boy-- those boys--has resulted in pain.”

“You’ve given Ienzo peace, Even. That’s not for nothing.”

“Well, he still has a long, long way to go. All that compartmentalizing is bound to begin unpacking itself now that he’s more stable.”

“But peace is the first… piece. As it were.”

Even adjusts his collar. “What would it take for you to find peace, Ansem?”

“...The ability to forgive. If I could find forgiveness, the rest would follow.”

“Do you want to forgive, or be forgiven?”

Ansem is silent.

Even tries a different track. “Ienzo was in here with you. What is it you spoke about?”

“He doesn’t trust me. I don’t know why that was surprising. Why should he? I abandoned him.”

“You didn’t ask to be--”

“Before that.”

The sharpness of his tone throws Even off for a moment. Ansem sets the empty cup aside and knots his fingers. “Things were getting dark, even before I knew it was completely atrocious,” he says. “Yet I… did not once think of how it impacted him, what was happening to him. You said you tried once to get him out. Why didn’t I?”

“You were the king. Where could you have gone?”

“I had the power to stop these things and I simply didn’t.”

Even leans back a little. He tries to keep his face open, neutral. It’s an uphill battle. “Why not?” he asks gently.

“Part of me… I believe… also wanted to know what it was you were discovering. I hid myself behind false ideas of trust in you, of honor. But deep down? I am just as complicit.”

For a moment all that is audible is the crackle of the fire, the soft tick of a clock. “Guilt is just as intoxicating as darkness,” Even says slowly. “But unlike darkness… it can be useful.”

“I hardly call this useful.”

“It reveals the weaknesses in one’s character… things that can, theoretically, be fixed. This isn’t going to be easy.” His hair falls over his shoulder. “I’ve been doing the same thing… it might just be the most impossible research project. But it must be done. No need to waste myself when I still have so much to offer.”

“Like what?”

Even doesn’t know what to read into that question. “I’m educated. I’ve learned so much--true, I’ve used most of it for ill, but now I can undo the damage, or at the least… ensure it never happens again.” When Ansem says nothing, he adds, “The people running this city are children , Ienzo’s age. They have no experience, little knowledge. I may have only been a paltry scientist, but I can help them along their way. You could too. They don’t really know how things were. Yes, it was flawed, but it was better--than this.”

“Better than hiding, and rotting.” He bites the bullet. “That young man Leon asked if you wanted power again. I had no answer.”

Ansem laughs, but there’s no warmth in the sound. “And--what, wreck what they’ve built?”

“You were king for close to ten years. There were hardly ever more human rights. You cared for these people. You brought unprecedented change.”

“Change which was then taken advantage of.”

“I am trying, Ansem. I am trying to help you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Even feels the blood in his face.

“As you said. All the good you’ve tried only ends in pain. Pain I do not need.”

His hands are trembling. “Very well. If that’s how you feel.” He stands; he’s so angry he’s dizzy, and in his periphery, something far darker and heavier than anger. Even leaves, willing himself not to look back, not to say anything, not to feel--

---

It takes work, to seal up one’s emotions. He’s forgotten. He hides himself behind his newest project, staying out of the way, saying little, again incapable of being any use. It’s hide himself away or fall apart; neither seems like a good idea. It’s summer now, hot and impermanent, but his lab somehow feels cold. His hair has become longer and more unmanageable until finally he caves and cuts off the dead (singed?) ends.

He doesn’t isolate himself completely. No point further worrying the boy when he seems his happiest. When necessary, he socializes, but keeps the conversation as surface level as possible. He pushes through it. Facades are so much harder now. It is a relief, to see Ienzo doing so well, all things considering. A relief and somewhat of a novelty to witness the boy in love. It suits him, and for all intents and purposes Demyx seems to be a good partner. He would know; Dilan gossips about it endlessly. (Even supposes the man needs some way to fill his days.) Apparently the boy’s been caught going to and from Ienzo’s room. Even doesn’t particularly care; they’re both human adults in a romantic relationship, these things are bound to happen. More power to them. But to Dilan you’d think it’s the most scandalous thing; so much for him claiming to not care, either. Even puts up with the gossip, because at least it means the man is talking to him.

He didn’t fully realize how serious things are between the two young men (though aren’t they? Ienzo risked his life to save Demyx). All of a sudden one of these days he notices that Ienzo’s possessions are slowly disappearing from his room, piece by piece. Dilan, ever the glutton for drama, faithfully reports that they have cleaned up an apartment several floors below. One day when they are both preoccupied by their work, Even sneaks down to examine it for himself. The door’s been left open, and sure enough there their things are lying; pairs of shoes, jackets, odd little trinkets and books. It evokes in him something deep and bittersweet. The boy’s finally been allowed to properly grow up.

Soon after that, he’s returning to his own quarters after a fruitless day of working when he sees Ienzo rummaging around in his old room’s drawers. He opens the cracked door. It’s beyond strange to see this room so emptied. All of the posters have been taken down, the bookshelf stripped, even the mattress is bare. He realizes that Ienzo’s essentially leaving as soon as Even got used to his presence again. “So that’s it then,” he says.

Ienzo looks up at him. He’s not embarrassed, exactly, but there’s a shyness when he says, “Yes.”

Even goes over to the bed, smooths the quilt a little. “It will be odd to not have you around.”

“I’m not far. Just downstairs.”

“Even so. I only just got used to being in this place again. I feel I am growing much more slowly than you.” He isn’t sure why he admits this. But isn’t it the truth? He’s so stagnant.

“It isn’t a race,” he says, and offers a small smile.

“No.” He sits, considering the young man. “You know, when Ansem first decided to bring you here, we reacted poorly. How on earth could we expect a child to thrive in this environment? Moreover, how could we care for one? But I think you brought a life into this place. An ambition. You were a reminder of the future we sought to create. You still are.” How’s that for earnest? But he means it.

Ienzo sits down near him. He looks at his hands, the clothing in his lap. “Our relationship has been… strained. Yours and mine.”

“I’m aware.”

“We reformed… and you were gone. I know now, of course, why you did it. But things were overwhelming enough that I… I worried I’d lost the Even I’d known for good.” It feels like he’s wanted to say this for some time.

Even drops his eyes. “It is… tempting to blame it all on the thrall of darkness, but that is reductive. This whole process has revealed flaws in me that I once valued as strengths. I was selfish, devious, cruel. And I had no way of stomaching the emotional rot it would dredge up. Ienzo.” He takes his hand. “I am proud of the person you’ve become. Even though I cannot flatter myself and take credit for it.”

He blushes a little. “That is very kind.”

“I’m glad the cards have fallen the way they did. We have all played our parts to perfection, including those of us who are surprises. Only now there is no more script.” Even brushes a strand of hair out of Ienzo’s face. “I do so wish you would let me cut your bangs.”

A small smile. “I’m afraid you must get over it.”

He laughs a little. “I suppose. You’re grown now, making your own decisions.” He takes a breath. He can’t help himself. The boy is just so young . “Are you sure this is what you want?”

His turn to look away. “Yes,” he says. “I… I do love him. And I want a future with him. This is part of that.”

Even knows it’s the truth, but still it’s odd to hear him say it out loud. “Better him than a stranger, I suppose.”

“A stranger would not be able to understand.”

The boy has a point. Nobody else will be able to grasp the convoluted past of his. “No. You’re right. I’m glad you’ve found what happiness you could.”

His blush reddens further. “Thank you. I am too. I will still be around.”

“And I should like to see this place sometime.” More than covert spying.

“Of course.” He picks up his things. “I should head back. We have plans for lunch.” He’s almost at the threshold.

“Ienzo?”

He turns. “Yes?”

“Is it very strange, to be in love?”

He barely hesitates. “No. It is as natural as breathing.”

---

Even finds himself considering what that means.

Loving is supposedly natural--regardless of what kind of love it is.

Why does he find it difficult?

(Is he worth loving? A desiccated wretch like him? What can he possibly give to anyone in any capacity?)

He thinks about his late spouse, if that was a real love. Of his biological son. Surely he must’ve loved them--their departure wrecked him so. He must love Ienzo similarly, right? A sort of paternity? What of the others? The webs between them are all so complicated--Demyx is right, the power dynamics at play are so strange.

Is it possible to make amends? Is he worthy?

He recalls the conversation with Ansem. How the man claims he only causes pain.

(Isn’t he right?)

He feels stuck.

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

let’s talk about aziraphale’s self-delusion!

so, i originally wrote the following analysis in response to this post’s reblog. but as notes rarely seem to get looked at, i’ve decided to post it on its own (with some additions/minor edits and relevant screenshots).

(to thesis the op: i enjoyed a lot how the good omens tv show characterized aziraphale as someone trying to maintain the best of two worlds—loyalty to heaven and the archangels, and his relationship with crowley—while in denial about the contradictions and dilemmas inherent in trying to maintain it. it’s the good omens tv show that has the figure of “good” unable to accept his desire for love and companionship, and the figure of “evil” comfortable with freely offering those to him.

@jacquez45 specifically brought up the idea that aziraphale’s reluctance to be close to crowley had a lot more to do with his fear of punishment from heaven (namely Falling) than a sense of identity as an angel. i disagreed.)

part of my perspective on aziraphale’s “blind loyalty” is that, well, it’s a blindfold that he has tied on himself. i didn’t quite elaborate on it in the original post, but i view aziraphale throughout the show as continually operating on multiple levels of awareness. he knows that the potential consequences for disobeying (Falling, the cruelty of heaven) are severe. and that in itself does raise doubts in him. but doubt is bad, and so he ties on the blindfold and smothers his doubts, pretending that his increasing laxness isn’t exactly that.

i don’t quite agree that it’s fear of the punishment motivating him. if it was, i think aziraphale would display a much stronger strictness of self-regulation and an openness about that fear. despite his numerous interactions with crowley on-screen, we almost never see aziraphale allude to the possibility of Falling so much as his sense of identity as “the angel.”

considering how he still brings up crowley’s risking destruction, it wouldn’t be out of bounds for aziraphale—who is and has always been, since he gave away his sword and worried over whether it was right to a demon, rather self-preoccupied and vocal about it—to bring up a Fall as a deterrent to crowley once he realized their relationship was more meaningful than a long con.

as for the archangels, he definitely tip-toes around them, but outside of them? he collaborates with a demon, indulges in vices, and has (in his heart of hearts) become a bit static in his role as an angel. although we see crowley doing an assortment of hellish deeds (the M25, the london mobile phone lines, the paintball guns), the most we see from aziraphale in terms of heavenly duties in the relative present is “thwarting” the antichrist, an act in stretching logic and bounds so aziraphale can feel secure in acting in his self-interest.

it’s not the archangels that decide whether an angel Falls. otherwise, he would have by the end of the show. the determiner is god, who is all-knowing and all-powerful and absolutely would be aware of aziraphale’s every doings and thoughts. if Falling were such an important concern to him, self-vigilance would have to be a constant presence in his behavior.

yet aziraphale lounges in his bookshop whiling away the days, trying to discourage encounters with the very people he was put on the planet to inspire, drinking wine and indulging in human foods.

and being best friends with a demon.

essentially: the huge conflict in aziraphale’s arc isn’t fear of Falling, which could come anywhere at any time if he slipped far enough (and thus overcoming that fear), it’s his numerous self-delusions in pursuit of sameness and stability.

his costume design is always decades or centuries out of date with articles of clothing he’s kept for even longer. the ways he is persuaded to deviate from the ideal angelic path are to preserve the human indulgences he enjoys, both big (the apocalypse to preserve his earthly life) and small (using his arrangement with crowley to stay at the globe to help shakespeare instead of performing his assigned duty, indirectly lying about the purpose of his “bookshop” to preserve his collection). in the rejections and reasons he puts to voice, part of what blocks him from a close relationship with crowley is this slowness (“you go too fast for me”) in a show written deliberately as a love story.

most importantly, he continually puts to voice what is expected of him as an angel while falling short of it in reality. this suggests that his concerns are not actually with reality, and the possible consequences of such, but with his internal sense of self and comfort.

(addition: i didn’t elaborate on the above images in the op, but i will here. it’s a clear example of a characterizing moment where aziraphale asserts a boundary based on his ideal sense of self—his angelic status and thus unfriendliness to a demon—while then contradicting it in practice by smiling and offering politely for crowley to enter first, notably instead of being literally “behind” aziraphale. as early as it is in the show, this exchange also functions as an establishing moment for his character and their relationship, and the ironic juxtaposition makes clear how aziraphale’s more direct statements of identity don’t often align with his behavior.

(importantly as well, the turning point of aziraphale’s arc, in which he finally decides to reject heaven’s orders in favor of saving earth, has nothing to do with Falling. rather, it is his acceptance of two things:

(how he fails to live up to being the ideal angel...

(... and how he is ultimately of the same stock as the demons, and thus crowley, which would allow him to possess a human. a rather demonic action for an angel to do.

(what allows aziraphale to overcome the obstacle to his happy ending is his acceptance that there is, in fact, little difference between angels and demons.)

further points in aziraphale’s character design that allude to his preoccupations with the “unsaid” and “unthought” is his tendency to avoid directly acknowledging what discomforts him and to communicate through subtext.

in the globe theatre flashback, early in the creation of the arrangement, he takes offense to what crowley is “implying” and insists that he not refer to it as the arrangement it is. and when he manipulates crowley into taking the trip to edenburgh, he doesn’t actually say anything.

he merely takes the opportunity to look at him significantly...

... and then pretends to accept crowley’s favor as a generous and unforeseen offer instead of a deliberate result of his asking.

this happens again in a similar manner in the present, when they’re hit by paintballs in the ex-nunnery courtyard and crowley miracles the paint from his jacket for him. again, aziraphale doesn’t acknowledge crowley’s affection by making a direct request; only plies the gesture from him through suggestion and a look.

in the st james’s park meeting over holy water, too, aziraphale refers to their relationship as “fraternising,” even though the resulting spat makes it clear that their relationship is (whether acknowledged or not) rather more than that. and the conversation in the car in the 1960s is (rather famously in fandom) all about the subtext.

this is where aziraphale directly does something for crowley, giving him holy water, that very clearly makes him uncomfortable.

crowley asks him if he should say “thank you,” an acknowledgment of the favor and how significant it is.

aziraphale says, “better not,” a rejection of the thanks even as the choice of words softens the rejection itself.

not only because heaven would dislike the act happening here. but because aziraphale dislikes it out of fear that crowley will kill himself with the holy water. and that means he cares for crowley. the conflict over the holy water is the closest that aziraphale comes in the past we see to voicing how much he values their relationship.

and in the end, he couches it in crowley’s offers to give him a lift.

this avoidance is particularly on display in the bandstand scene, the climactic moment of their relationship in which crowley directly addresses the strength of their relationship. he asks aziraphale to run away with him. he states outright that they’ve been friends for 6000 years.

and aziraphale freaks out.

(addition: see again that re-assertion of their angel and demon identities!)

he not only dives headfirst into blatant denial, he deliberately pushes crowley away in a similar manner to the “fraternising” line by revealing that he’s known where the antichrist is for a while and has avoided telling him so because they’re on opposite sides—when for the longest time, as crowley says, they have both acted far more as if they’re on their own side.

i do agree that aziraphale is frightfully aware of the possibility of Falling. but i don’t think it’s a main motivator for his behavior, so much as one out of many truths that he puts so much effort into ignoring.

aziraphale’s primary conflict throughout the show is not fear of Falling. it’s that he has a deeply-held image of what kind of person he is and the kinds of things he does that are dissonant with reality. and his efforts to maintain and ignore that dissonance create problems once the stress of the impending apocalypse causes that precarious balance to collapse.

[ofsplit]

❛ nothing we feel is understood by anyone else. ❜

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄  *  /  𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 at the Croatian court, but truthfully, Francesia was their wild card. A spectacular, silver-clad force, peerless in both reality and metaphor. He recalled the first time he was presented to her ( what telltale irony, that, when Jakov had been in Zagreb longer than she had ) and the lurch, dismal and hopeless, of true beauty striking its mark. Would that she were plain, he had thought, over and over like a mantra of deliverance, tilting over from worshiped to worshiper, would that she were nothing much at all. Of course, scorned Gods never did grant demands. If orisons were as scant a resource as it seemed in the world, then Jakov had already bungled them all, used them up in flimsy chances. So that now, when he burnt at a pyre of longing, of needs half-confessed and even less met, there was no one to quell the smoke. And so Francesia had not been plain. She had been - was - ardent, burning like white fire, growing into her power with just as much urgency as one. Tenacious, too. Determined to skirt all the uphills that Croatians ( and dear Nikola, both blameless and blameful at once ) would thrust before her.

It was unthinkable to ever hate her. Hatred was too simple a substance, could carve no room in what he felt. There was resentment and distance, the self-awareness that she was so frightfully similar to Jakov, only bearing none of his fickleness, none of that indulgent apathy, stretched over his soul like a blanket. There was, oftentimes, the perverse need to peek through the blockade between them, so carefully comprised of protocol and duty —— when he lingered over her hand, mouth ghosting the skin, he could not help delaying the retreat, wondering if that’s where Nikola had pressed urging lips, if that’s what he moaned against, or held interlocked atop the bed furs. Mostly, there was admiration, and a dull sadness which neither pierced nor howled. It thrummed within him instead, like bowstrings set wrong in their notch.

The inevitable had always loomed over them, but lately Jakov had started to wonder if the inevitable was only so in his mind. Nikola did not seem to advance; not noticeably, and oh, Jakov was painfully attuned to changes by now, no matter how subtle, every deeper smile a mark in his heart like height points on a door frame. By now he had shagged his way through half of Zagreb. He dotted his trail with curtailed hearts, envisioning the following morning he would council with Nikola even as his hands delved deeper into someone’s hips. Perchance there was no inevitability to it in the slightest: he would die as he lived, clinging to each signal from the king even as they never materialized in his grip. Clinging even whilst they stumbled into old age, the royal children long out of the nursery, the reins of power faithfully ceded? The thought made him want to scream. Draw blood, yes, but whose? His own seemed the overbearing option.

And yet, just as Nikola stalled, Francesia had charged forward —their alliance, tentative in the beginning, if tangible at all, now began to stoke up, bolstered by these foreign parlays. The words she’d just addressed him were a testimony of that. It was, so far, the boldest step they’d come to circle. He debated feigning confusion, for a moment, like the recreant he felt himself to be. But she deserved better than such a dismissal - it offended not only her courage to approach the subject, but also her intelligence, to which they’ve both stood witness countless times before.

❛ My Queen, I am sure the world is vast and wholly unknown to us; the old religions would own that. Someone must have felt it once before. ❜ He gave out a small sound, the stunted child of a chuckle, but rueful and dry. The Duke’s gaze cottoned to her, drawn to the shapely frame, the budding fierceness underneath. ❛ At least once. But now… yes, I’d dare assent. No one can understand what this is, or how it grew to be, or what to do with it even as it drags us all down. ❜

[35min]

character solidifying! 41, 47, 48

                                            ( character solidifying | accepting )

Is your character aware of who they are? Strengths? Weaknesses? Idiosyncrasies? Capable of self-irony?

             i think being capable of self-awareness and being truly self-aware are entirely different things, and adrian falls smack-dab in the middle. it isn’t that he’s not self-aware — in fact, he’s focused a lot of time and energy on mindfulness and meditation in order to become the most realized version of himself — but he’s also utterly delusional. to put it simply: he knows who he is, but the expressed forms of that can get…messy. his delusions come in the form of self-righteousness in justification for actions that on paper are morally corrupt, and they just get worse and worse.             it’s a frightfully dangerous combination, really. adrian’s self-awareness, especially of his weak points and with his ability to be self-ironic, make it difficult to land an insult that actually affects him; he usually just brushes it off. his pride in objective thinking makes it difficult to manipulate him emotionally. adrian gives off the illusion of being perfectly at peace with himself, but faced against his own complexes and ideals, that sense of logic crumbles, and he blinds himself willingly with the light. and in all that, the only thing he’s self-aware of is that he’s self-ruinous.              post-squid adrian gets closer to that realization, but he’s teetering dangerously close to the edge of a quiet breakdown because of it. he can’t get out of his own head anymore, which is the logical conclusion to this            tl;dr: he is, but there are blind spots that are kept to prevent him from falling into complete dismay over what he’s becoming, because he’d have an existential crisis if he realized. adrian’s self-awareness is at max capacity but he still has the audacity to not look in the mirror and go ‘are we the baddies’ 

Do they want to project an image of a younger, older, more important person? Does they want to be visible or invisible?

             i will put it simply: adrian wants to be seen, beyond all else, as what can be aspired to. a quintessential peak of humanity that can be reached by anyone if they just try hard enough. he has a corner of the self-improvement market entirely because of this. he’d rather be an example than a godlike figure ( but there’s always the pride in getting there first )             i suppose to any other universe he projects that of someone much more important than he is, but in his own world, he actually downplays this quite a bit: adrian’s an extremely influential figure whose work in the tech industries ( either with help or merely planned & funded by him ) radically changed the world he lives in, more than any of the rest of his efforts save for his work uncovering government conspiracy in the late 60′s and early 70′s.              what’s necessary for adrian to project is the aura of amiability, and a lot of his charisma is put into this. he puts outward effort into seeming a little warmer and good-natured when it will suit his needs, which covers up that he’s really quite melancholic when alone.

How are your character’s gestures? Vigorous? Weak? Controlled? Compulsive? Energetic? Sluggish?

            oh, ‘controlled’ isn’t the half of it. if you observe him enough, you’ll notice that adrian tends to keep his elbows close to the body, and all of his speaking-gestures are very close-kept and fluid. if they aren’t present, he’s unnaturally still.             if there are any wide or grand gesticulations, it’s almost certainly out of emotion or for the drama of it all. 

[olga-eulalia]

I’m taking a break from thinking about a Sleeping Beauty AU and looking at my scattered .txt notes instead and there’s a fucking SilverFlint tailorshop AU dated Spring 2017 that I have no memory of drafting and I don’t know whether to be surprised by any of this or what.

“I find myself in need of a new waistcoat and a pair of new breeches.” Their seams had been let out once already and wouldn’t yield more fabric now. "Since these have come to be a bit tight."

"So they are.” Silver’s tone was sympathetic.

I can only assume that the other 5000 words are an attempt to cover up the fact that I only wanted to write one scene in which young Lieutenant James McGraw blushes uncontrollably while Silver takes his measurements. [more snippets, some nsfw, below cut]

But no, apparently not. Because I totally glossed over that moment.

“I’ll have to redo both inseams here,” Silver said, startling him. “If you are to wear these breeches on duty you’re going to want more ease.”

“Of course.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” Silver assured him.

^ Did I want to save it for this scene? The fitting? No, I pan away there, too.

“I’m sure you’ve got some stories of your own to tell?” Silver said, untying the pincushion around his arm.

“Sure,” James said. A sudden lightheadedness made him heedless of the fact that stepping down from the platform brought him almost chest to chest with Silver. “But most of them are very... nautical. I don’t know whether they’d be to your taste.”

“You’d be surprised.”

They looked at each other then and, as the clock on the mantelpiece would attest to, did little else for quite a while.

“I have a lunchtime engagement,” James said, in lieu of kissing John Silver.

There’s a twist in this fic that I did not see coming I’m losing my mind

"I need to ask you something that may be of a delicate nature.”

“Please. I’m not the delicate sort.”

“Since I've been coming here... have there been any inquiries made about me?"

"Three, as a matter of fact," Silver said, never stopping in his sewing. "You're a much wanted man, it seems."

The casualness of Silver’s delivery was outrageous and James’s palms turned cold and clammy as he clenched his hands.

It only confirmed what he had always believed about some of his fellow officers: That they were the rotten offspring of spineless scum who would not hesitate to use any possible means to elevate themselves above others. From the start they had guessed that there was something different about him -- he could see it in their faces sometimes, their struggle to pinpoint what exactly it was that caused their dislike -- and so they’d eventually stooped to these methods.

James's heart was beating in such a rapid tempo that he thought keeping his temper in check might very well make him faint this time.

He had indeed suspected that part of the reason Rackham’s could offer the prices it did was because it sold its clients' information for profit. Which made the circulation of any incriminating gossip at least partially the fault of his own unwillingness to abandon an improbable fantasy.

But Silver was not finished yet. "I told the first gentleman, in no uncertain terms, the same thing I told the others. That I'd never entertained a customer less inclined to such proclivities and that I couldn’t fathom why he’d ever think he’d have a chance with someone like you in the first place."

James's heartbeat stumbled, no longer fully convinced of its ire.

"You were right to assume that such inquiries are not uncommon here, James." Silver was tying up his work. "Though I believe in your case the interest of all three gentlemen was altogether genuine."

Anger and fear left him in a rush. “Pardon?” The idea of there being others like him in his circle of acquaintances made him sit in stunned surprise and the fact that Silver had not only protected James’s privacy, but also purposefully squashed any potential chance he might have had with these gentlemen left him feeling quite flushed.

With a nimble trick, Silver transferred himself from the armchair onto the sofa. Holding out the mended garment, he asked, "Do you wish to discover their identities?"

Resurfacing from deep within his thoughts, James found Silver’s eyes. "No," he said. "No, I don't."

"Good. Because I'm not inclined to share." Silver held his gaze. "You."

 🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿🍿 Alright, now I’m kind of into this.

“Tell me, lieutenant, are all your approaches so timid?” he asked, unbuttoning the waistband of James’s breeches in a most casual manner, then moving on to loosen the drawstring at the back. “Because I heard something very different about you.”

“And what would that be?”

“That your manoeuvres are wont to leave your opponents weak-kneed.”

“I’m sorry.” James frowned, wondering since when such an abundance of gossip was circulating about him. “I wasn’t aware we were engaged in battle.”

Silver gave him a lopsided grin.

Inspired by its slyness, James slid his hand higher up, over Silver’s crotch, excited to feel Silver’s cock move when he squeezed it. “Besides, I wasn’t planning on making this a quick defeat.”

^ lol ok I’m never allowed to write banter again.

The ribbon at the back of Silver’s head had come undone and his hair was curling wildly about his face and over his shoulders. The friendly gleam in his eyes had disappeared, driven out by voracity. He seemed to be transforming right in front of James’s eyes, his appearance as a meek and proper tailor relegated to a distant past.

^ Is this another twist?? I don’t know what I was going for here! Was Silver going to be the personification of something???

“Don’t,” James warned.

“Don’t what?”

“I’m gonna ruin all your hard work if you don’t slow down.”

“That’s-” Silver’s eyes twinkled with delight. His lashes grew heavy. “That’s very flattering.”

“Don’t pride yourself. I haven’t really all that much. Not on board.”

“Are you telling me that you’re stuck on a ship full of men for months and won’t let any of them near you? Is being a member of your crew some kind of particularly cruel punishment? All these poor bastards, lying awake at night in their hammocks, cursing you, your handsome face, your stunning body,” Silver said, rearing up and nipping at James’s chin with his teeth. Then, looking James over, his face took on a mollified expression. “And here you are, between my legs, blushing like a debutante. Fuck, James, you’re too much.”

Silver kept stroking drop after drop of James’s lust to the surface and smoothing it down the length of his hot, hard shaft, aggravating the hurt. Squeezing the head of James’s dick, dabbing at the moisture his thumb, he said, marvelling, “You’re giving me so much slick that I could fuck you with it.”

“Stop talking. Please,” James gasped out, already so close.

“I think I’ll let you have my fingers,” Silver said. “Would you like that, James?”

While the breath still shivered from James’s mouth, Silver’s free hand slipped down into the back of his drawers, strong fingers gliding between his cheeks and rubbing across his hole. The waistband of his brand-new breeches stretched frightfully like this between both of Silver’s forearms. As promised, the tip of one thick finger pushed inside him and lodged there immovably.

James keened behind closed lips, a sweet ache pulsing through him. He struggled to keep his eyes on Silver’s face as his hips fell into giving long, smooth thrusts into the fist wrapped around him. And he would have liked to savour that blissful moment very much, make it last by slowing his movements down, but Silver seemed to want to see him undone completely and sped up his hand, jerking him just as fast and sloppy as James needed it to bring him to the point of no return in seconds. His arse cheeks clenched around Silver’s fingers, his body strained with its sinews pulled taut, and his hips pumped mindlessly, jolting forward as he shot out his seed, spilling into Silver’s hand and over both their clothes.

He silenced himself in the crook of Silver’s neck, nestling his face into the fragrant locks there, and for a mad second fancied himself looking at the summer night sky over the southern coast of Cornwall.

Possibly.

Silver was petting his head. “Did you enjoy that?”

James felt like a spit of storm-ravaged rock. Too exhausted to find offence at Silver’s self-satisfaction, he pulled back and rested his weight against Silver’s side, following with interest how Silver pulled off his cravat, opened his pearl-studded button cuffs and then started to unfasten the front of his black waistcoat with his usual deftness before sitting up to shrug out of the garment and pull off his shirt.

James’s breath stopped. Silver’s torso was beautifully marked. Across his abdomen, a ship and a star. On his left side, high on the curve of his ribcage, a swallow adorned his skin. But the most riveting picture of all was that of two large Tritons posing on either side of his chest, holding up an empty banderole that echoed the slope of his collarbones. James’s fingers traced the shape of them, their scaly serpentine tails.

^ Hey, I remember this part! I spent a long time thinking about the perfect motto for that banderole! And it’s entirely possible that my failure to come up with a good one is what brought this fic to an untimely end.

James pressed himself on top of Silver and kissed him for long minutes, making it as filthy as Silver seemed to like. Then, sinking to the floor, he stripped Silver’s hips bare and placed his mouth over the head of Silver’s cock, taking it in one long wet slide to the back his throat. Silver punched out a breathy ohh, sprawling loose-limbed, resplendent in the rosy glow of his pleasure, a tender look in his eyes.

Ugghhhhhh I can’t believe my past self would betray me like this and end it here :(((( Now please excuse me while I take this prompt to the kinkmeme.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Jess/Leto + “you’re being way too nice to me.”

Early-era, PG-ish, late queued crosspost / also on ao3

She doesn’t understand.

The novelty of her presence should’ve worn off by now, as routines have established themselves without anything that feels like conscious planning by anyone involved. She is perhaps more of a decorative object here than she would be elsewhere and she has uncertain feelings about it, but there is an inherent respect in her positioning, a protective caution in how she is allowed to exist in this world. It is understood that she holds dual loyalties, and if anything that increases her status, if anything-

Every baseline Jessica ever created for herself, everything she once thought she knew about the ways of the world, has proven itself to be not enough compared to the reality ahead of her.

She should be better at this by now, nearly a year into her placement. Her stated task is to monitor and shape one man, and this one would be frightfully easy on paper. Not prone to cruelty or destructive vices, self-aware enough to counter the flickers of an impulsive streak, at worst stubborn and proud but those tendencies are the best that could be expected from that background and position. A different woman would’ve been able to slip under his skin by now – she can envision what some of the girls she trained with would’ve done, the ways she should be handling all of this – but she hasn’t been able to find it within herself yet, she hasn’t-

It is unfair, she thinks, to realize that one person is capable of making her this weak. It is even less fair that she’s starting to want it.

She has done so little, at most allowed advances and even that inconsistently – it is understood when she declines affection, and she finds power in that, in knowing that she will never have to use control for her own protection. Her instincts have proved accurate enough, and her paranoia will never slip away but at least it has started to change form, at least she has accepted that her partner could never be a threat to her. He has tried for her – skies, the effort she has seen and does not deserve, the out-of-order steps of a more normal courtship as attempted by someone who could never know how deeply the littlest kindnesses penetrate her heart. How much she buries within herself because vulnerability is still unthinkable, how often she bites her lip and uses too much energy to keep her composure. She has become passive, and the worst part is she can’t hate it, the worst part is-

Her partner circles her, and she feels more like a statue than prey, nothing to fear in these movements even as she forces herself to remain perfectly still. The necklace he has just placed around her neck feels strange, heavier than something so delicate should. She is not yet at the peak of her beauty, and to be desired feels strange, how real it all is and how much she understands the implications and the lack thereof. This is a legitimate gift; nothing will be asked of her in exchange for it, at most an appreciative comment if she makes sure to wear it for some event in the near future but she will be left be if she decides to put it in a drawer and never let it see daylight again. It is hers now because he thought it would look right on her, nothing more, and that breaks her heart and she is still surprised she has a heart and-

“You’re being too nice to me,” she murmurs. She can still feel the echoes of his hands on the back of her neck, her hair moved out of the way for access and she knows this is not inherently a prelude to more touch. She is safe, she reminds herself, she is safe, she is-

“It really isn’t…”

She will become annoyed with this in time, she thinks, how casual he is about everything because doing otherwise has never occurred to him. If there is uncertainty buried under his layers she hasn’t found it yet, hasn’t seen flickers when she’s been a comfort after nightmares or when he gets even more talkative when he drinks. In time, she is sure of it, this will become a recurrent fight that will not resolve no matter how many decades it spans.

“I don’t expect this much.”

He gives her a look that could be described as affectionate disappointment and she is reminded how different they are in experience, how rarely anything in the world has stood between him and whatever he wants. There is pain despite that, no one is ever immune, but it is different from what she knows, more fearless and confident and-

“Don’t talk like that. Don’t make yourself so small.”

It’s a tiny piece of gold placed on her skin, she reminds herself. Nothing worth being difficult about. She does expect to be comfortable, to be kept well, and the circumstances of her life are not as far above her baselines as she sometimes makes them out to be. But at the same time…

Who is she if she learns to wear bright colors and let her partner hold her hand when other people can see? Who is she if all of this becomes normal, if the novelty wears off and wears into a life?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“What makes you think-“

“You don’t have to give me so much of your energy.”

Another set of emotions she never knew could go together before him, why-are-you-like-this as a silent declaration of love. “You really…”

“I don’t need to be a priority.”

“And if I want you to be?”

She can’t answer that question, not fairly, not as it deserves. She shouldn’t be, she knows that much, but it would be cruel to say so, to make him worry that much more about her. And maybe she wants, maybe-

“That’s your decision,” she replies after a few moments’ silence. “I can learn to live with it.”

“You don’t need to-“

“You keep trying to make me into something I’m not.”

“And you don’t?!”

Not anger, she reminds herself, nothing to fear even if voices get louder, no reason as she involuntarily tangles her fingers in her skirt. Nothing bad can happen. She will not let it.

“We are not the same. I am not-“

“You’re not what I expected either,” and they have had this conversation before but this time the venom is different, less directed at her but painful all the same. “Deeply powerful and perceptive, yes, there is no fault in you but… do you even know how to act like a person?”

“It never seemed necessary,” she replies too quickly.

“Exactly my point. You’re either under me or trying to become one with the walls and… that’s not life. That’s not-“

“It’s what I know.” She bites her lip hard enough to bleed, hard enough to ruin any kisses she doesn’t want, enough to-

“I will not become the monster you want me to be. I’m not sure how else to convince you.”

“I still don’t understand-“

“I’m not asking for that, I’m asking for you to trust me enough not to flinch when I say how lovely you are. Small things, alright?”

She’s not sure she can give that, but at least she has a clearer sense of boundaries now, at least there may be a way forward. “I can try harder.”

“Don’t… don’t worry yourself over me.”

“That’s most of my purpose,” she murmurs, and it makes her feel lighter to say that out loud. “Asking me to stop worrying about you would be like asking me to stop breathing.”

“I forget I don’t know you either. I can’t imagine life without you and-“

This is why she worries, why she will lose so much sleep over him over the decades to come. How clear he makes his loyalties, and how she has become one of the deepest ones despite… oh, she doesn’t know what she did, and maybe she never will. Maybe that will be the only question she never asks.

“I can try harder,” she repeats, reaching for his hands. “The necklace really is pretty, I didn’t-“

“I have to figure out your preferences somehow,” he murmurs. “If you even have them.”

“I don’t know how to do that either.”

“Yes you do. You weren’t subtle about-“

“I looked wrong in that dress, don’t-“

“I’m going to die with that image on my eyelids,” and there’s a certain delight to his voice, like he’s not sure if he even means it. “Why did I ever think…”

“I wanted to make you happy,” and this is the desire she will die for, how much of herself she would already give to see that kind of light in his eyes. “I want…”

He brings one of her hands to his lips for a moment and already this depth of understanding between them despite the miscommunication, above all else a desire to do right by each other despite their complications. “Then let me love you how I want to love you. Don’t make us harder than we already are.”

It takes more energy than she expects to keep herself from blushing, from letting her body show how overwhelmed she suddenly feels. “Don’t talk like that. I can’t-“

“Don’t make us harder,” he repeats, and it’s clear enough he doesn’t want to escalate that potential fight. “I want to care for you. Doesn’t mean you have to do the same.”

She takes the opportunity to back away, sure enough that she will be left alone as she chooses to leave. No reason to lock her door, no reason to fear, no reason to-

“I don’t understand you,” she murmurs, and maybe that’s the point of it all, maybe that’s why she was placed in a situation that so often feels designed to tear her apart and remake her into something unrecognizable. “But I do trust you. Can that be enough?”

“Anything you give is enough.”

She believes him. Damn her, she believes him too much.

“I… thank you. I should’ve said that sooner.”

“You make yourself clear enough.”

She feels less clear than ever, more tangled than she knew her heart could become, but… maybe that too is enough.