#i truly cannot believe its been almost ten years and i have not been able to share this show with anyone of my fucking life 😪

[knifelesbianjo]

adding 'accept to watch/rewatch black sails with me' to my dating apps profile bc I need to find someone to watch this show with me or I will die

[top-vi]

the contrast of rhaenyra's and alicent's experiences with motherhood is so fascinating

I’ve always argued the storyline of being wary of motherhood and childbirth would’ve worked better with Alicent than Rhaenyra.

Alicent doesn’t get to choose who the father of her children is, she doesn’t have access to contraceptives nor can she refuse Viserys when he calls for her.

The themes of forced motherhood and the consequences of this would work so much better with women like Alicent: struggling to love children forced on you, not understanding why you’re not overcome with maternal affection, suffering from undiagnosed postpartum depression etc.

With Rhaenyra it just doesn’t work because unlike Alicent she can choose her children’s father and she can decide when she wants to be pregnant. In the books she has three back to back pregnancies and then stops for 4 years, whilst in the show she has Joffrey eight years after Luke which means she intentionally had a third child. Either way it all comes down to Rhaenyra having bodily autonomy; if she didn’t want to be pregnant she wouldn’t be pregnant.

Also having Rhaenyra be the one who expresses her wish to not have children honestly feels more sexist because the writers are implying not wanting to be a mother isn’t normal, so once Rhaenyra gives birth to Jace she realises the error of her ways and happily has five more. This implication doesn’t sit well with me.

so i wasn’t fair to you anon, and i’ve let this sit in my inbox since may. the reason for this is because i wanted to see how alicent and rhaenyra’s relationships to their children were developed, explained, and expanded on in season two.

regarding alicent and her children:

i think we officially got your wish anon (mine too). while some people may be unhappy with her arc in season 2, alicent has always had a deep-seated love-hate relationship with her children. i’d argue that in season one we also got glimpses into the just…visceral revulsion that she cannot shake when she looks at her children, aegon in particular. but in season two i think she’s truly confronted, in a noticeable tangible way, with the facts of her sons.

obviously, i wish we’d been able to see more of this kind of dynamic back in season one, especially with a younger alicent. however, there are season constraints and we can only see so much in ten episodes (side note: 8-10 episode seasons with a two year wait in between is a rant for another time, but know i’m not being like “yay season constraints!”).

the problem with alicent’s arc and struggle is that so fucking much of it is internal. it is so incredibly hard to show on screen and i find the way its been done so far admirable. up until luke’s death, alicent is lying to herself over and over every day about her relationship to her children, aemond and aegon particularly. once the war starts i believe the tower of lies she’s told herself (this is morally correct, i’m just doing my duty, i was treated well, i’m protecting my children like any mother should) start to crumble. i hate so much that we never got her reaction to aemond killing luke for this reason.

also, to a certain extent she may not ever truly come to grips with her trauma. there are no words for what she went through—marital rape was not a concept then. it still manifests, obviously, but i think we can tell with her repeated insistence that viserys was a decent husband and man [loud incorrect buzzer] that she still thinks she’s the one who’s done something wrong. i’ll be interested to see if the writers ever actually have alicent come to grips with the fact that viserys was, in fact, not a good person or king. personally, i don’t believe they will, but we can always hope.

anyways, all this is to say that: i do believe the themes of forced motherhood and its lifelong consequences are well done and explored with alicent (thus far). people will disagree, perhaps even you, but her eventual rejection of aegon and aemond; her desperate, almost chaotic protection of helaena; her ideas about daeron; all of it really speaks to the struggle she’s had and is going through as their mother.

regarding rhaenyra and her children:

this is more difficult that alicent lol

before i get into my gripes with her story, i do want to push back just a little bit on the idea that rhaenyra truly has bodily autonomy. regardless of when or with whom she gets pregnant, she’s still expected to get pregnant and have children. while its unfortunately not explored, she does need to produce heirs.

now. i agree with you for the most part. rhaenyra’s relationships to her children really make no sense. the only one that’s fleshed out is jace, and while that is interesting in the “she’s doing to him exactly what viserys did to her,” it is not complex internally (in the same way alicent’s is). i also personally see joffery as an oops baby, but who really knows. i don’t even know how to explain her children with daemon. they were plot necessary i guess lmfao

the problem with rhaenyra and her children is that almost all of the critical moments in their relationships happen off screen during the time jump. its a structural tv show problem and it brings up these kinds of issues when looking deeper into the relationships she would actually have. i think the writers did a good job this season of making the internal conflict and intrapersonal strife within team black better, but this is just one of those things thats never going to be explored. in this sense we’ll never really know her true feelings or the development that could’ve happened—which is a massive shame.

my personal headcanon (so take with a grain of salt and don’t come for me), is that rhaenyra isn’t against the idea of children as a teenager, she’s against the childbirth. i believe this both because of the horrors of watching her mother’s repeated miscarriages and eventual death while in childbirth, and her consistent refrain of the desire to be a man. i think she wants, to her core, freedom and, as a woman, having a child requires much more sacrifice than having a child as a man.

i don’t personally see the change from not wanting children to totally wanting children as misogynistic, but i don’t blame you for seeing it that way because of the utter lack of canon explanation for it. again, i wasn’t really fair to you keeping this until season two was finished, but i think both alicent and rhaenyra’s relationships to motherhood were developed well.

[herearedragons]

Ooh tell me more about Aqun!

Heck yes I will! and the tumblr app refreshing and deleting everything I wrote before cannot stop me

Aqun is my archer/artificer rogue Adaar who is actually a human/Qunari half-blood, born to a human engineer and a Tal-Vashoth she once saved from a dreadnought wreck (which is a story of its own).

He had a pretty secluded upbringing, living with just his parents (and some animals) in a cottage outside of Ostwick, with their nearest neighbors being a Dalish clan that would camp about an hour away from their house every spring (which is why the house was initially abandoned and Mom Adaar was able to buy it basically for nothing way before she had a husband and a child. unlike the previous owners, she managed to get along with the clan just fine). He was homeschooled by his mom, and didn't really have any friends his age except for the Dalish kids he'd play with every now and then.

He joined the Valo-Kas when he was about 20 and freshly rejected from more or less every place of work/study he'd applied to in Ostwick because, despite him being a pretty good artificer and having internalized most of his mom's engineering degree, no one was quite ready to take in a half-Vashoth. The Valo-Kas happened to be looking for traps and explosives, and Aqun has never really dealt with those before, but it was an opportunity and really how hard can it be to figure out. He took the job and hit the books; fast forward ten years and he's a full-time member of the Valo-Kas and one of their main demolition guys.

Vibes/themes-wise, he's the kind of guy who's never given up on a problem (often to his own detriment). He's also A Professional, A Perfectionist and A Goddamn Nerd. He wants to know everything and to fix everything, and his worldview is this weird mix of practicality and almost a romantic approach to things. His specialization these days is mostly "machines and chemicals that help you destroy things good", but he is also very invested in the idea of building things that help people. He also grew up with his dad's stories of the Tal-Vashoth Rage, which messed him up a little because now he's scared of his own emotions and works really hard to control his temper.

Also, this is him:

(this is already pretty long, but I'm going to put more thoughts under the cut because I've been given an excuse for an Aqun Ramble and I'm taking it)

easily fascinated with morbid magical things like red lyrium and the Blight, and at least part of it is him kind of wanting to try to fix the unfixable. he gets REALLY into trying to figure out an efficient way to destroy/neutralize red lyrium, and into trying to help Emprise du Lion recover

the Anchor is really bad for him for two reasons: the first is that he needs two functioning hands to build things and shoot things, and building and shooting is who he IS. the second is that the flare-ups make him very irritable, which is bad for his Qunari Rage Issues because every time he catches himself getting uncontrollably angry he's scared that he's going to hurt someone

loss/grief is a big part of his arc; losing so many Valo-Kas members both before and during the events of DAI hits him pretty hard, and he barely has time to process it with everything else that's happening

fully commits to being Inquisitor; he becomes the title. he thinks about how he's perceived and tries to consider the ramifications of his actions in the long run; he also starts several research/restoration projects using the Inqusition's resources. he's been given Power and, like with everything else, he tries his best to Understand It and figure out how to apply it correctly (he does believe there is a "correctly" here)

when I say that he's a nerd I mean that he carries a field journal full of Research and as long as circumstances allow he'll stop and study every new fun thing the party comes across. also his party members. also the Anchor. he will truly take notes on anything (he's the most interested in how things can be Useful, though)

the thing about making him romance Solas is that Aqun is the guy trying to fix the world and Solas is ALSO the guy trying to fix the world, so there's recognition and eventually respect and admiration, but also Solas WILL have to break every single thing Aqun has built to succeed in his plans, and Aqun WILL burn through every resource at his disposal, including himself, before he lets that happen.

it's also about Aqun being the Wants To Know Everything Guy and Solas being the Pwease Ask Me Questions Guy

it's also about Aqun casually going "when I was a kid the Dalish children I played with always asked me to be Fen'Harel in our games because I looked the scariest" and Solas taking psychic damage just from hearing that

it's also about Aqun being in love with the waking world the same way Solas is in love with the Fade and both of them being in love with each other's fascination with how Their World works

there are more fun parallels but that's the gist of it

also, here are the Adaar parents. look at them. my emotional support old people power couple

[stonefreeak]

My goodness people, I’m so sorry for the delay! I’ve been working on the structuring of my files to get a better overview of what remains of the project, to hopefully be able to speed writing up (even as work really means that my free-time is much more limited than it was once upon a time, lmao. Sometimes I miss December of 2016 when this whole thing started, 33k in a month of updates, amirite?)

it’s taken me so long I’m wondering if anyone even remember this plot point at this point, lmao

Also: belated happy midsummers to all my fellow Swedes!

Bail taps his finger against this desk and stairs unseeingly at the datapad in front of him.

He hadn't been sure if the information Aleena Yashi gave him, though she's worked as an assistant to multiple senators over the years, was true. But everything checks out. He briefly wondered why she would come to him about it, rather than Senator Lobos who she's currently working for... But perhaps it's because he's known to have a favourable view of the Jedi that she's done so. Perhaps it's because all of this information mostly pertains to the Jedi and the laws surrounding them, and she wanted a prominent Senator who she could trust not to hide the information away because they don't care for the Jedi.

Bail, a Core World Senator well known for his good relationship with the Jedi and friendship with the current Supreme Chancellor, must have seemed like the best option for her. He wonders who else would have been on her list, before she settled on him, but he chose not to ask when she visited him. Perhaps it's better if he doesn't know; it hardly matters now anyway.

He looks down at the datapad again and considers his options.

He should probably discuss her findings with her, and see what exactly her goal is. If he's to do something about this, then he wants her involved even as he gathers support from other senators.

He has no doubt that Padmé will agree to add her support to Bail to help sort this mess out, but considering that they've both been involved with the investigation they're conducting into Jedi missions being altered... Well, Bail wants more Senators involved this time. Just to ensure that it cannot be taken as some form of conspiracy in favour of the Jedi. As ridiculous as that notion seems, Bail is not blind to the way many Senators look at the Jedi, nor to the fact that many of them don't seem to believe that they're really capable of what they say they are.

Few people besides the Jedi truly believe in the Force, after all.

Few people could believe in something they cannot know for themselves when others supposedly have a direct connection to it. Bail is one of the few who does believe them, he's seen what the Jedi can do first-hand. There's nothing else that can account for that kind of power besides this Force they talk of. They and other groups out there, it’s not only the Jedi, after all.

Besides, he knows many of them personally, and while Bail may not understand or follow all of their beliefs or traditions, he also knows that they're not a bunch of charlatans faking it for power of money—though he knows some of his fellow senators believe that to be the case. Even senators on Coruscant, who've seen Jedi in real life, seem to believe them little more than myth.

Bail has been kept up to date on the investigation into the Jedi missions, though he’s not taking an active role in it right now, and he’s certain that he has been kept in the loop to give legitimacy to the investigation. Give it a proper paper trail, even if it’s done with the Senate’s highest level of security. A strictly need-to-know basis, and until it’s finished, no one else needs to know.

Of course, Bail asked Obi-Wan in private if he would be allowed to tell Breha. As his Queen and the leader of Bail’s planet, he found it important to clue her in on it. Besides, it’s another step of legitimacy. After all, if Breha takes an active stance on it, then so does Alderaan.

If anyone wants to accuse the investigation at a later date for being a sham… Well, they will need to accuse Alderaan of engaging in it in the first place. Bail isn’t stupid enough to think that it’s not one of the primary reasons Obi-Wan agreed with Bail’s request.

They’re friends, and Obi-Wan likes Breha, but this is not about being friends. This is about political allyship and keeping sensitive information on as tight a lock-down as they can until the time  to reveal it comes.

Besides, as worried as Bail has become with Miss Yashi’s information, it’s even worse when considered together with the altered Jedi missions and not in the least… Well, the war time propaganda. There's no point in shying away from what it is, and the ramifications it has.

Considering how most of the war time propaganda—Bail can acknowledge it for what it is, there truly is no point in trying to deny the facts—focuses almost exclusively on the clones and their efforts in the war, it's hardly strange that the general population neither know nor understand them.

Further considering the information that Bail has now confirmed to be real and accurate... He understands that the omission of the Jedi is entirely deliberate. If you want to discredit and undermine the Jedi, why would you ever speak of their accomplishments and sacrifices? You wouldn't, as that would bring public support to them.

Bail sighs and rolls his shoulders.

He needs to build a following, he cannot properly push this alone. But he also understands why Miss Yashi brought it to him alone, first. A Core World Senator is far harder to make "disappear" than a Twi'lek Senatorial aide, no matter how awful that is to say. Bail can't go missing, and any attempt on his life would have a bit more trouble hitting its mark.

That's not to say that it would be impossible for someone to assassinate him, which is of course why he'll make sure that Breha is entirely up to speed on everything.

All of it together... There is some form of conspiracy to discredit or perhaps even get rid of the Jedi; Bail is sure of it. But he cannot see to what end. What are they trying to achieve?

For what reason would anyone work to discredit the Jedi? What is the end goal to strive for? There’s no way for the politicians to dissolve the Jedi Order, they are not in that way under Senate control. They could, of course, remove all of their backing, forcing the Jedi to become free agents, certainly…

But for what purpose? It would leave the Republic without the Jedi as peacekeepers, for the Jedi would hardly remain to do diplomacy work for the Senate without its backing. After all, what would the point be? Without the Senate’s backing, the Jedi would have far less ability to do anything.

How could they negotiate treaties if the Senate won’t honour them?

They could, perhaps, be a neutral third party within discussions. But there’s no reason for anyone to listen to their input in such a case. It’s hard enough to get disagreeing parties to listen to external input when you come with powerful backing that could make you listen even if you refuse.

How could they function with no funding? They would need to work on commission, at which point only those who can afford their help can get it. That would be the opposite of an improvement.

To not even begin to talk about how few of them there are, how few of them there were even before the war. Their population is not even a hundredth of a percent of Alderaan’s population, and Alderaan is only a single planet within the tens of thousands of star systems that make up the Republic—nevermind the entire galaxy. There’s just not enough of them, and hasn’t that always been a problem even while they’re working under the Republic? Too few, spread too thin.

No, if the Jedi became free agents, their ability to affect change would be greatly diminished. Bail is quite certain they’d work on much smaller scales, still trying to do what they can for the galaxy, bit by bit. Working with smaller communities on planets and moons… If they even had the ability to find out about disputes that may need their help in the first place.

Losing the Jedi as peacekeepers isn’t a win for the Republic either, as the budget for the Jedi was already miniscule even before it started being diminished—as Miss Yashi’s discovery shows. It cannot be an attempt at cost saving, or an idea of improvement for the Republic. Needing to train their own diplomats and ensure that they have skilled enough guards… That would be more expensive and it would not be able to guarantee that these diplomats are neutral in conflicts.

The Jedi have no specific allegiances the way diplomats and even Senators have. Even the least corrupt Senator will still place their own planet and star system first. It is part of their role, after all.

So no, it cannot be something like that. Not unless the people slowly enacting this are horribly misguided and foolish. Not to mention, Bail knows most Senators would simply call for making away with the Jedi entirely, rather than this slow plan to undercut them.

No… There must be something else going on here, some other primary goal whoever is pulling these strings is looking out to do.

He’ll need to figure it out, no doubt, Bail concludes.

But beyond that, he also needs to build a base to help him bring this information he’s been given to the Senate’s attention. He is quite sure already who he should be looking towards first: Senator Ach’ki Mandai of Haa’ndu.

Who better to help him bring this to Senate attention than the Senator who ensured a Jedi now sits as the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic?

—

(Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi masterpost)

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Can I have a drabble with Thrawn ?

I was thinking about a scene, shortly after the death of the emperor and Vader and the death star explosion. He would summon Reader to tell her they are among the last authority figures of the empire alive and although he has everything under control, it will be difficult and he could really use an hand this time.

Bonus point if they hug.

Thank you Darling (may I call you that way?)

A/N: Okay, so we’re going Original Thrawn Trilogy canon with this. Let me see what I can do. And you absolutely can, if you like.

Also, this turned into a thing because I have no sense of control.

Word Count: 1.4 K

You kept your head high as you walked through the quieted hallways of The Chimaera.

Nobody could focus on their duties and none of the officers had it in them to give orders. The shock of information had dumbfounded the entire ship. The second Death Star was destroyed. Half of the Imperial Fleet was gone. The Emperor was dead.

The rebels had done it. It was the beginning of the end.

But, The Chimaera was still there and all waited on baited breath for their Grand Admiral's orders.

You tried to focus on your steps rather than the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drown you. You had always been sure of who you were and where you stood in the galaxy. You were Commander Y/N of the ISD Chimaera, second to Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Imperial Navy. But what did that mean, if the Empire ceased to exist?

You shook your head.

No. Empire or not, you were still a Commander. The Chimaera was still your ship and so long as it kept flying, that would never change.

With new found resolve, you quickened your pace stopping just in front of Grand Admiral Thrawn's office.

You knocked on the door and a moment later, it opened with a small hiss.

Upon entering, your eyes were drawn to the holo projection in the center of the room. It did not take you long to realize the calamity of the scene before you. The Battle of Endor in all it's fiery disaster.

Thrawn stood in petrified stillness, watching the holo in intense concentration; his glowing red eyes illuminated in the dim blue light.

You stepped forward, focusing your attention on the calmness of his form rather than chaos.

"Has the fleet regrouped?" you asked.

Thrawn turned his eyes toward you, refocusing to the present moment.

"No," he said. "This was sent to me from the Accuser, requesting assistance from all Commanders."

"Should I plot a course, sir?"

He shook his head. "No. We're too far out of range to provide any timely assistance. There are others on their way.”

You nodded, understanding the logic behind the statement. Still a question buzzed in your mind, one that was plaguing everyone on the ship: what do we do next?

You kept quiet all the same, knowing if Thrawn wanted to tell you, he would do so, in his own time.

Thrawn turned off the projector, allowing white lights to fill the darkened space. He then reached behind his desk and pulled out a crystal bottle filled with amber liquid and two glasses.

"Join me, Commander?" he asked.

It wasn't and order, which itself prompted it's own question.

"Depends on what we're drinking to, sir."

"To our fallen officers," he answered, pouring a healthy dose into each glass. "And to the new Empire which will rise from the ashes."

He held out the glass, which you took with caution.

"Implying the Empire has already fallen."

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. "Do you believe it will survive?"

You opened your mouth, with a ready yes on your lips, but stopped. Taking a moment, you looked down, examining the ridges of the glass in idle thought.

"No," you said, slowly. "If it was just the Death Star or just the Executor, that would be one thing. But the loss of both and the Emperor is too much. There is no central leadership, and will all the Navy's resources poured in the second Death Star, I doubt there is enough remaining to maintain control over the rebelling systems."

You looked up to meet Thrawn's approving eye at your assessment.

"Of course," you continued. "If there were someone to take control..."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Thrawn's lip as he bowed his head.

"You flatter me, Commander," he said. "However, how many of the remaining Admirals do you believe would willingly follow my orders?”

Your instinct was to say all of them, but again, you hesitated. As your superior officer, you had learned to trust Thrawn's command implicitly, but a quick review of your history reminded you of how rare that truly was. There was a reason the Emperor had left Thrawn to deal with the fringes of the Empire rather than involve him in Core politics.

Each and every Grand Admiral would see themselves as the successor to the Emperor's legacy, not the alien with nothing but rumors to uphold his reputation.

You let out a sigh. "None, I suppose."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, just as he raised his glass.

"The Empire is gone," he said, solemnly. "Long live the Empire."

You each took a drink. The expensive liquid both burned and soothed your throat on its way down. It was an odd sensation, but one you hadn't realized you needed until that moment.

"I take it you have a plan," you said.

"The start of one," he assured, with just a hint of a smile. "In the mean time, we shall continue to maintain control of our own systems. Whatever resources available, we will refocus into our fleet. With any luck, others may join us, but we cannot rely on that fact."

You nodded, finally feeling as if your feet were starting to settle on solid ground.

"Shall I inform the crew?" you asked.

He shook is head. "I believe it would be best if they heard it from me."

There was a pause as you waited for him to dismiss you, but, no such order came. He just kept looking at you.

It was a familiar look, but one always caught out of the corner of your eye. The kind of look that left your heart racing and blood warm. Now, so clearly directed at you, it was hard to breath.

"Is there something else, sir," you prompted.

He blinked as if coming back to himself. "How long have we known each other, Commander?"

You frowned, slightly taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

"Ten years, more or less."

He nodded, setting down his drink as he did so. "I could tell you exactly; ten years, seven months, and twelve days. You were a Captain at the time."

The warmth in your cheeks spread, forcing you to put down your glass as well.

"And you were a Commander," you said, the memory coming back to you with the ease. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes." The word was spoken so softly, you almost wondered if someone else had said it.

Glancing up, you caught a strange gentleness in his expression. It only lasted a moment, but it was there all the same.

"You don't have to stay," he said.

You straightened in bewilderment. "Sir?"

"The reinstatement of the Empire is a task which will take years to complete," he continued, calmly. "It will take dedication and sacrifice. Only complete devotion will allow it to come to fruition. I plan to announce that any who wish to leave the service are free to do so and return home. Those who remain, will likely never see their home worlds again. It is not to be taken lightly, and I will not have anyone on my crew who doubts their resolve.”

He paused, just as a hint of emotion came into his voice.

“I would not force you to stay, if you do not wish it."

You stared at him, mouth gaping in wonder. Your answer came easily.

"I'm not leaving you, sir."

He blinked. Your stomach twisted.

You had said “you”; not the Chimaera, not the service, you.

You wanted to take back the words, but it was no use. You knew the truth and now so did he. You might be willing to give years of your life to the service, but you would give your entire self to Thrawn.

He watched you with an unreadable expression. Slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, he walked out from behind his desk.

"I thank you, Commander," he murmered. "I admit, I hoped that would be your answer. I could not imagine the next few years without you with me."

Your breath hitched, just as he stopped only a foot from your body.

He had said "me".

Without a word, he reached out a hand and tenderly pressed it to your cheek.

His touch sunk into your skin making your melt into him. You placed your hand, over his, keeping it there. If this was your imagination, you needed to cling to if for as long as you were able.

He stepped closer, his glowing red eyes gazing into yours as the warmth of his breath brushed against your lips.

"There is something else I must ask of you," he whispered.

"Anything."

He leaned a hair closer, his nose brushing against your own. "May I kiss you, now?"

A small smile came to your lips. "You needn't ask."

With that permission, he pressed his lips to yours pulling you into a slow and passionate kiss.

The Emperor was dead. Long live the Emperor. And long live the one at his side.

[remedialpotions]

Off The Train

Thanks to @mertronus for tagging me in the HPRomione Discord Popcorn game thingy! The prompt she gave me was: "I can finally see you."

I'm tagging @acnelli with the prompt: "You can't just keep pretending things are fine!"

***

”I can’t wait until you get off that train,” says Ron, his voice low and lazy with fatigue, “and I can finally see you.”

Hermione shifts in her bed so she’s lying on her side, mirror held out before her. This way, she can pretend - if she squints a bit, and ignores the crimson hangings of her four-poster bed - that he’s lying next to her, and not hundreds of miles away in London.

“What do you mean, ‘finally’?” Hermione, too, keeps her voice quiet. It won’t do, in her final days as Head Girl, to be waking her dormmates. “You’re looking at me right now.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. I can see you, but I can’t touch you, or...” The corner of Ron’s mouth twitches up into a crooked smile. “Or do anything else for that matter.”

“Right. Well,” she says, trying to infuse positivity into her voice, despite the weeks since the Easter holidays dragging into what felt like months and years, despite missing him so much that it’s like a heavy fog surrounding her. “It’s only a couple more days, right?”

“Can’t it be now?” Ron looks like he’s reclined in bed too now, his fiery hair stark against the deep navy of his sheets. “Just get to Hogsmeade, then you can Apparate-“

“You know full well that I cannot,” she replies briskly, even though it’s tempting, really tempting. “It’s-“

“-behavior unbecoming of a Head Girl,” Ron finishes her sentence. “I know. I just miss you, that’s all.”

“I miss you too.”

“I love you,” he adds after a moment’s silence, before his eyes widen with inspiration. “Oh, I’ve got it. What if I Apparate to Hogsmeade, and then walk to the castle - I bet Hagrid would let me through the gates-“

“It’s only two days, Ron.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

“And I love you too.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I know.”

•••

Pigwidgeon is the last owl to fly into the Great Hall, his little wings beating wildly to keep him aloft. With a scrap of parchment clutched in his tiny talons, he struggles over to the Gryffindor table before somersaulting down into Hermione’s lap.

Hermione’s heart sinks, and not just at the sight of the exhausted little bird currently burrowing into the crook of her elbow. Their two-way mirrors mean they don’t usually have to resort to writing letters. Not unless...

Hermione, the parchment reads when she unfolds it. Got called on an emergency mission. I’m not allowed to tell you where or why or even how long but I’m hoping it won’t take too long. I’m still going to be there at King’s Cross, because I’m dying to see you and I can’t wait until all this is over and we can just be together. Anyway, I love you and try not to worry too much. I promise to do my best not to die.

Ron

“Oh, good,” comes Ginny’s voice from beside her, and Hermione turns to see her peering intently at the parchment. “He’s promised not to die, that’s a relief-“

“He’ll be there,” interrupts Hermione, tucking the note in the pocket of her robes before Ginny can further infringe upon her privacy. “If he thinks it’ll only take a day, then I believe him.”

Ginny blinks. “I never said he wouldn’t be.” Plucking Pigwidgeon from Hermione’s lap, she offers him water from her goblet. “I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”

“It’s probably just a quick day trip,” Hermione rationalizes, eyes focused hard on Pigwidgeon as he drinks so she doesn’t have to see the sympathy she knows is etched on Ginny’s face, “and he just wanted me to know in case - well-”

“In case he dies?”

Ginny’s attempt at a joke falls flat.

“Well, just in case, you know, something were to - to happen,” Hermione stammers, “and anyway, it’s just good for me to know - I like to know what he’s up to - not in a controlling way or anything, just-”

“Of course,” Ginny interjects bracingly. “I’m sure he just wanted you to know, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll be there.”

Hermione picks up her mug of tea and holds it close to her face so the steam washes over her. She knows what they’re both thinking but are unwilling to say: that in the year Ron and Harry have been Aurors, neither has had a mission run shorter than a week.

•••

And so Hermione sits with Ginny and Luna on the train, watching the Scottish Highlands slowly transform into the low, tidy hills of the English countryside outside her window and hoping against hope that Ron will be there on Platform 9 and ¾. But she hasn’t heard from him since that first letter, and his mirror has gone dark. This doesn’t worry her - not for his safety, anyway - but it does make it difficult to share in Ginny’s gleeful anticipation as the train pulls into King’s Cross.

She busies herself with tending to Crookshanks, who is furious about his prolonged confinement in his basket, as Harry and Ginny embrace on the platform. It’s not that she’s upset, not really. Ron is doing what he needs to do, and she would never want him shirking his responsibilities just so he can kiss her on a train platform for the first time since April. She just wishes things could be different.

After Harry and Ginny depart for Grimmauld Place, she flags down a taxi and rides alone to her parents’ home. The family car is parked in front, which is unusual for a weekday, but when she goes inside, she finds her parents have been eagerly awaiting her arrival and can hardly let her set down her trunk before whisking her away to an upscale restaurant in South Kensington.

“So, tell us about school,” says Mum with an eager smile once they’re seated at their candlelit table. “How were your exams? I want to hear everything.”

“I will later,” Hermione replies, raising her brows and tipping her head pointedly in the direction of the waiter currently pouring red wine into their glasses.

“Oh, right, right, of course. Well, anyway, dear,” she begins as the waiter sets down menus and strides away, “your father and I have a little surprise for you.”

It’s foolish, she knows, but her mind leaps instantly to Ron. Maybe all of this business with his mission has been a ruse, and he’s here in London after all, and she’ll be able to come up with an excuse to spend the night at Grimmauld Place…

Until she notices that her parents are still talking, and there’s no tall, lanky, red-haired wizard to be seen in this high-end French restaurant, but there are three Eurostar boarding passes laid out across the tablecloth.

“Sorry,” says Hermione, shaking her head to clear away the daydream, “what’s going on?”

“We’re going to Paris!” announces Mum with delight. “We thought it would be so lovely to spend time together since you’ve been away for so long, and you’re about to start your new job - and I know you’ve always wanted to go there. We’ve got ten whole days, and everything’s booked, so all you’ve got to do is pack.”

“That - that’s - that’s brilliant,” Hermione musters, forcing her lips into some semblance of a smile. Her parents beam so brightly back that it’s almost difficult to look at them. “Erm, so when are we leaving?”

She crosses her fingers under the table, praying they’ll say August, or her birthday in September, or Christmas, anything but-

“This weekend!”

Of course.

•••

Paris is beautiful. It exceeds every single one of Hermione’s expectations. She and her parents consume copious amounts of bread, cheese and wine, they visit museums and cafes and old bookstores, they ascend to the top of the Eiffel Tower and take in the view. She thinks of Ron constantly as she walks the cobbled streets, as she crosses the Pont des Artes and sees the countless locks affixed to its railing. Before she left, she sent Harry an owl to tell him that she was leaving, so Ron would know where she was if he returned home before she did. As they can’t communicate when she’s staying in a Muggle hotel, she truly has no idea where he is, but she tells herself that he’s still on his mission. It feels better that way, imagining that even if she stayed in London, there would still be obstacles keeping them apart.

On their last day, she nearly empties out a patisserie buying eclairs and macarons for Ron, and then they board the Eurostar back to England. Nervous anticipation grips her stomach as the train barrels through the tunnel (idly, she wonders if Ron’s dad is aware of this train that travels underwater, and makes a mental note to tell him), because she has no idea what awaits her back in London. What if Ron’s still away? Or worse - what if something’s happened to him, and she’s been off enjoying a holiday while he’s been suffering?

The train can’t move quickly enough. Hermione can focus on nothing - not the paperback romance novel her mother has loaned her to read, not the Muggle newspaper that her father is engrossed in, not even the argument of the couple seated across the aisle from them. It’s only a two-hour trip, so why does it feel like it’s taking days?

She checks her mirror, but it’s still dark.

“You go ahead, sweetheart,” says Dad when the train finally rolls to a stop in St. Pancras station. “We’ll get the cases.”

Hermione looks up at the luggage rack over their heads, then at her parents. “Are you sure? I’ll bring mine-”

“We can manage. Go on ahead, get some fresh air.”

She doesn’t bother reminding them that train station air is hardly fresh, and instead heads down the aisle with just her purse and the box of pastries in tow. Truly, she’s not sure why her parents have sent her off the train without them; with the station as busy as it is, they’ll surely lose track of each other.

But then she sees him. Standing a head above the crowd, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his bright blue eyes scan the throngs of travelers. At first, she doesn’t believe her eyes. Surely, she’s just become so desperate to see him that she’s actually begun hallucinating.

But as she draws closer, he doesn’t ripple into nothingness, he doesn’t fade away. He’s really, truly there, his red hair curling behind his ears, one knee jiggling with pent-up energy the way it always does when he’s particularly impatient. As he turns his head, still surveying the crowd, their eyes lock and the rest of the station recedes into the background. Finally, they’re within sight of each other after months of hushed mirror conversations and stolen moments borrowing Professor McGonagall’s Floo. Hermione picks up speed, nearly skipping across the concrete in her haste, and flings herself into his waiting arms.

She fits against him perfectly. The fabric of his faded t-shirt is soft against her cheek as she breathes him in, and for the first time in recent memory, words fail her completely.

The box of pastries thuds to the ground.

“Hi,” he mutters, lips brushing her skin and sending chills up her spine.

“How - how did you-”

“Harry told me where you’d gone.” He presses a kiss to her cheek, and then, at long last, their lips connect. “It’s not that hard to look up train schedules.”

As reluctant as she is to pull away from him, she leans back just enough to look up at him. Behind the freckles scattered across his face, his cheeks have gone pink. “You’re amazing,” she tells him, rising on tiptoe for another kiss, unconcerned with the passersby and the blast of nearby train whistles.

Ron lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug when they break apart. “Had to meet you on a train platform somehow.”

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

You wrote your opinions on the Order of the Phoenix, what about the Death Eaters? That's another way of saying Lucius, Bellatrix, and anybody else. I honestly feel that we're running out of HP characters for you to write your opinion and reasoning about, so yeah~

We honestly are. When people start asking me questions about Harry’s nameless and faceless classmates I feel like we’re scraping the bottom of my barrel of Harry Potter opinions.

Though, that said, this is still a very large ask if you want me to analyze very Death Eater ever or even the Death Eaters as a whole (which is worthy of its own post).

So, we’ll compromise, and I’ll just look at the two you name dropped.

Lucius Malfoy

To me, Lucius is by far one of the more intelligent Death Eaters. He’s the guy who makes them almost look classy. I say almost, because Lucius is still a racist domestic terrorist and as the series goes on Tom gleefully drags him into being less classy by the minute (his house becomes a POW camp and housing for the dregs of society, Lucius just sobs, trying to be thankful he’s somehow still alive).

Lucius is rich, sophisticated, and is probably the most politically powerful man in the country. He has a beautiful wife he has... a son (sorry Draco, but you do not live up to your father) the guy has it all.

Which makes it very surprising that he got dragged into this mess. But you see, Lucius is paying for that tragedy we call youth.

Also, as a caveat, I’m about to headcanon hard and will not bother to get into the details of why I think x, y, or z in this post.

Ten years prior to the start of canon, Lucius is a very young man, probably very charismatic, certainly believes he’s intelligent and probably gets decent grades, but nonetheless the kind of stupid you see in men ages 15-25.

He’s likely chafing under his aging father’s strict guidance, knows he’s not going to be Lord Malfoy for years yet, wants to get out there, prove himself, and make a difference for his country. More importantly for Lucius, there’s this hip, exciting, new thing that all his cousins and friends are getting into called “The Death Eaters” (yes, I don’t believe the Knights of Walpurgis/Death Eaters 1.0 ever happened, I think it’s ridiculous that fandom and JKR does, I could go into why but not in this post). 

The Death Eaters are led by the single handedly most beautiful, charismatic, man in Britain. (Yes, I headcanon Tom’s still blindingly attractive at this stage, because it makes much more sense to me but we’re not getting into that here.) A mysterious man by the name of Voldemort, Salazar Slytherin’s long lost heir, who has come to resurrect the wizarding world’s true heritage and purge the land of the muggle stain. (Yes, I do believe that no one, not even Lucius who is later given the diary, knew who Tom really was. I believe Regulus’ had only the vaguest idea, informed mostly by Tom’s use of Kreacher to place the locket.) This is the most exciting thing to have ever happened, the rallies probably consist of rich kids drunk out of their minds and maybe even high on a little wizard cocaine, and Lucius is down for it precisely because his father says “Lucius, this is stupid, please don’t embarrass the family.” WELL LUCIUS IS GOING TO EMBARRASS THE FAMILY, DAD! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?!

And for a while, it looks like Lucius made the right choice. Things are happening, they’re actually going out and killing the mudbloods! Unlike Regulus, Lucius never has that “wait a minute” moment as he realizes that Voldemort’s actually far more efficiently eliminating pureblood families and sowing dissention in what was once a unanimous force among the Wizengamot (the other pureblood lords aren’t necessarily pro muggleborn, per se, but they get a bit queasy at the thought of blowing them up or Merlin forbid actually blowing up their own public venues wizards use). 

And then October 31st, 1981 happens, and it all comes crashing down. Lucius has to desperately lie his ass off, having only the flimsiest lie to rely on, has to hand out a shit ton of bribes, and manages to squeeze his way out of being imprisoned in Azkaban. 

I’m sure Abraxas looked at his son, with his tattoo on his arm that makes him another man’s slave, at the utter destruction of the Black family, and just shook his head going, “Clean up your mess, Dumbass Son”

And Lucius does to the best of his ability. While some will always suspect him of being a Death Eater, while some know it, he’s able to climb very high in influence in their ridiculously tiny community. Granted, I do think he messed up, and could never for example run for minister given everything (if Crouch can’t rerun then Lucius certainly can’t). He also shows us that in some ways he is not above the law, he’s very afraid his house will be searched without warrant in The Chamber of Secrets, and this is in part why he dumps Tom Riddle’s diary off onto Ginny.

However, he wields total control of the Prophet, has a seat on the Wizengamot, has the ear of the current Minister, is on the Hogwarts’ Board of Governors, and has his hands in pretty much every pie he can.

I imagine during this period Lucius grows up. He brushes the indiscretions of his youth under the carpet, gleefully leaving it all behind him, and the only real friend he maintains contact with from that period is Severus, the least zealot like of all of them. (Crabbe and Goyle Sr aren’t friends, they’re minions). 

Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a racist slime bag, and I don’t think he really regrets the domestic terrorism. He just regrets nearly getting caught and putting his entire family’s security on the line. He witnessed first hand what happened to the Blacks.

And then the worst thing happens: Tom Riddle rises from the dead. He rises, impossibly, from the dead when Lucius has his own hand caught in the cookie jar.

Lucius has been living a life of luxury and influence while his great master, the man he had pledged everything to, was dead. Worse, Lucius took what was described as a treasured item to be protected at all costs, and not only threw it away but sent it to Hogwarts where it caused massive havoc and was ultimately destroyed. 

And Lucius, I imagine, no longer wants to serve a master.

But he has no choice. And so begins Lucius’ descent into misery and hell as he’s given an increasing set of impossible, horrific, tasks in punishment that involve him watching as his wife and son are put through hell.

I believe Tom holds a special place in his cold, black, passive aggressive heart for Lucius Malfoy.

First, Tom makes Lucius’ house his headquarters. Oh, Lucius, you have a very nice, very large, estate? Why don’t you host your beloved, mad, cousin, her equally mad husband and brother-in-law? Oh, Bellatrix threatened to cut off your ear? Well, she’s just so passionate! 

Second, Lucius is told to go get the prophecy. Well, this is easier said than done. He nearly succeeds but then it all turns into the world’s largest clusterfuck that ends in two notable things. First, the prophecy is lost forever, shattered. Second, the government admits that Voldemort is truly resurrected. Both of these things are very bad in Tom’s book. And the blame can easily be put on Lucius’ head.

In response to this, Draco is now given an impossible task that Draco is too stupid to realize is designed to cause him (and his family) as much misery as possible. Draco is to assassinate Dumbledore. 

Likely, Tom was already informed by Snape that Dumbledore was dying. The blackened hand was too obvious a tell coming from too obvious a source for the pair to have hid it. I think trying to hide such information would have immediately blown Snape’s cover. So, Tom knows the man is dying, and doesn’t see fit to tell Draco this.

Instead, he tells Draco, “Kill Dumbledore as soon as possible or I deliver you to Fenrir Grayback.” Draco, however, is young and stupid, so he honestly thinks he is doing this to restore the family honor, earn glory for himself and for the cause, and is expected to do this entirely by himself. As a result, when Narcissa begs Snape to aid Draco, Draco blows them both off and only accepts help from Bellatrix because HE CAN DO THIS ON HIS OWN! DRACO IS A MAN.

This, of course, doesn’t work out either. Draco doesn’t deliver the killing blow, Snape does, but Tom decides to give him a pass.

Instead he moves on to his next plan which is making the Malfoy manor his torture chamber and POW camp. Even Draco, at this point, realizes this all kind of sucks. 

And then Voldemort finally dies a second time, and I’m sure Lucius just stares numbly at his malformed corpse, wondering if it will really take this time.

So that’s Lucius for you, paying always for his mistakes, and pretending he’s just as much of a nutcase as Bellatrix to fit in.

Bellatrix LeStrange

God, compared to the novel that is Lucius’ ridiculous life, I really don’t have much to say about her because I feel like there’s not much too her.

Bellatrix reminds me a lot of the Manson family, she gives off those same vibes. Point being, I think even before Azkaban (while Azkaban certainly didn’t help), she was insane and a little too worshipful of Voldemort.

I guess I can start there, I don’t think Bellamort is a thing, at all. 

Tom may have, probably did, have sex with her before he died but afterwards? In that body? Forget about it.

That said, I’m sure Bellatrix both wanted to have sex and is convinced she did have sex to produce whatever the hell Delphi even is. It just wasn’t with Tom, and probably was Rodolphous with a Halloween mask on his face as they got a little too into role play.

And there we go, I suppose, I can’t take Bellatrix seriously. You often see her portrayed as sexy femme fatale Death Eater, the most competent of all of them, if a bit of a sadist.

Oh she might be a very good duelist but she’s... Bellatrix.

She prances around in corsets, shrieking madly, and just what part of that is supposed to be femme fatale? I literally cannot take her seriously on any level. When I even try to write her seriously, in very serious stories, I end up with lines like the following:

"My lord, if there's anything you need… Anything from me, specifically, as a woman…" 

- Bright Eyes

That was my best attempt. That was the best I could come up with. It’s still something that belongs in a comedy.

So, I don’t think Tom really corrupted her. I think without Voldemort she still probably would have been blowing up Diagon Alley, just in a much less organized manner.

Even in canon she does ridiculous things. For example, Bellatrix, frankly, could have easily avoided prison.

For weeks after the dark lord fell neither she, her husband, Barty, nor her brother-in-law were arrested. Bellatrix in grief and utter disbelief that the dark lord could ever do something so mortal as die, said “remember that other house our lord mentioned, THEY MIGHT HAVE INFORMATION, LET’S GO MURDER THE LONGBOTTOMS!” They torture and kidnap Frank, demanding he tell them where their master is, THEY KNOW HE KNOWS. He doesn’t know. They go too far and torture the man into being a vegetable. “Shit, GET THE WIFE!” They go get the wife, do the same thing, with the same results.

They now have no information on the dark lord, two well regarded aurors tortured into brain damage, and are quickly caught and brought before the court with absolutely no “I was imperiused” excuse they can give out. 

How am I supposed to take her in any way seriously?

I mean, to end your life killed in a duel with Molly Weasley. That just says it all.

[skiyoosmi]

– caramel frappucino ch. 27

marga’s notes. AHHH hello my loveliest readers; i cannot believe we have finally reached this end (well, not really the last chap ‘cause we still have two epilogue-like chaps coming up but yeah)… i hope you enjoy this part!! PLUS LISTEN TO THE SONGS CAUSE AHHHHH THE. MOOD. FITS.

♪ CHAPTER THEME ♪

on the train ride home by the paper kites | quiet eyes by axel flóvent

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 “Do I look okay?” you asked, head turning to your cousin who was casually lounging around your room. For the umpteenth time of the day, Tetsurou released an exasperated sigh, looking away from the game he was playing on his mobile phone and glaring at you while lying on your neatly-folded bed.

“That’s what you’ve been asking for the past hour and I keep telling you yes,” he grumbled as he adjusted his body so he now laid on his stomach, continuing to scroll through his phone and at the same time, muttering some stuff about how he hopes you miss the fireworks show. Seconds later, he let out a loud yelp as he felt something hit him right on the back of his head. He scowled in your direction upon noticing the missing pink hairbrush that was previously in your hand, now on the floor.

“You brought me into this situation so don’t curse on me now. This… is your ship sailing,” you gestured to your face that was fancily styled for the night out. You only rolled your eyes when he childishly stuck his tongue out as a reply, going back to fixing whatever still needs to be fixed.

A few more minutes of doing unnecessary things passed before a knock resonated through your apartment’s front door. Tetsurou immediately jumped up from his position on your bed, giggling when he passed by your form before skipping his way downstairs to open the door for your guest.

To say that your heart was beating loud is an understatement – hell, you could almost swear it’s about to burst out of your chest from its pounding. Stop sweating, doofus! You’ll ruin your makeup, you silently screamed at yourself, feeling the dampness slowly beginning to form around your forehead and neck out of extreme anxiety.

“Y/N! Get your butt downstairs. Your date’s already here,” the teasing and boisterous voice of your cousin echoed throughout the apartment, followed by another giggle after a few seconds, probably because Sakusa replied to his rather embarassing comment. Despite not seeing the two, you felt your face flush; it wasn’t like you’re denying that it was a date… it was just unusual to hear especially when your date was someone like Sakusa.

After gathering enough nerves to face them, you took a deep breath and looked at your vanity mirror for the last time, hands smoothing down your red floral yukata for any crease that formed. Soon, you found yourself bashfully standing in front of the two tall men as Sakusa’s eyes shamelessly scanned your figure. Although he himself was wearing a simple navy yukata, you couldn’t fathom what he was thinking seeing as his face was adorned with his usual mask that was, for some reason, black this time.

“You look nice,” he nodded at your direction while you smiled, returning the compliment you have surprisingly received from him; you knew that your face was red as hell right now based on how your cousin was biting his lips to keep himself from laughing.

“Now, go! Enjoy yourselves and remember to make the wish,” he winked, pushing you both out of the door with his hands on your lower backs. You both gave him a glare that he only ignored, waving goodbye as you went on your way.

“I hope he understood what I said about making the wish though.”

“I’m sorry, he really didn’t mean to,” you profusely bowed your head at the man almost twice your age who was glowering at your companion who, in return, remained unbothered. On the ends of the said man’s feet were his spilled strawberry and milk kakigōri which Sakusa, coming from the old man’s words, knocked over when he bumped into him while walking beside the food stalls.

“Young miss, instead of apologizing when it’s not your fault, you should teach your companion how to be respectful to his elders,” he shook his head from side to side in a mocking disappointment, as if to annoy Sakusa further.

“Are you implying that I am disrespectful?” Sakusa countered, hands clenching a little bit as he tried to calm himself down. He doesn’t need a nameless man almost ruining both of your nights right now. Still, his pride didn’t let him let this one go; he couldn’t give this man the satisfaction when he clearly knows to himself that he didn’t bump into him a while ago. If anything, it was the older man who purposely bump into the two of you – probably cause you kind of looked a little too beautiful tonight.

Sure, he won’t deny that he found you pretty right from the moment he met you, one of the main reasons he decided to keep on talking to you and befriending you instead of loathing you for spilling the caramel frappucino on him. For some reason however, the way you styled yourself tonight made you even more gorgeous in his eyes, if that was still possible.

“Just drop it, ‘Omi,” you harshly whispered, fingers grabbing a fold of his yukata and tugging on it to stop him from engaging into an unnecessary fight. In addition to that, you were pretty sure the fireworks show will go off any moment now; you had to find yourselves a decent place where you can watch the much-anticipated event or else you will seriously sulk into a corner until next year’s festival.

“Apologize,” the man ordered but to no avail, Sakusa still stood his ground; even going as far as grabbing your hands with his and pulling you into the opposite direction. From behind you, you could hear a noise of protest and a ‘you little s–‘ before it was cut off. He kept on pulling you despite your arguments about how he should’ve just lowered his pride and said he’s sorry.

“Why would I say sorry when I didn’t do anything? It’s clear as a day that he’s just trying to prolong the conversation so he could take more look of you.”

“W-what…” you stuttered, not really being able to understand what he was trying to say. As if he was able to read your mind, he let out a frustrated sigh after removing his black mask.

“He had this disgusting look that screams he wants to take you out despite him being older by so much. I’m saying it’s because you look too pretty tonight,” the last sentence he told you immediately caused your face to flush a deep red; you were just so thankful it was nighttime or else you wouldn’t be able to live off the embarrassment of being so flustered from a simple compliment.

A few seconds later, it dawned upon you that he brought you to a rather secluded place by the top of the small hill where you still had a good view of what was about to come. Observing the area, you began to think Sakusa also watches the yearly event, judging by how he knew that this kind of secret place existed. People usually crowded by the bridge since it has the widest space and the clearest view which also meant that on this hill, you two were alone together.

He then took out a large piece of clothing that he laid on the ground, sitting cross-legged and patting the space next to him as he gestured for you to sit as well. Following his request, you gently sat down and looked ahead the reflection of the moon by the river.

“Are you feeling alright these days?” you only hummed in reply, too entranced by the night’s beauty. Ten minutes from now, the fireworks will make it even more beautiful.

“I’ve never pestered you about your… situation with Iwaizumi-san, but I felt like I needed to ask how you are,” he explained upon catching your eyes that were filled with wonder and curiosity due to his sudden question. Your mouth formed a small ‘o’ before giving him a small smile.

“I’m really okay, don’t worry. I just feel guilty sometimes, you know? In my mind, there are just some thoughts that pass by… things like I wish I’ve known so I didn’t hurt him that long,” you let out a quiet sigh, folding your arms over your knee and placing your chin on it. The quiet cricket of the night bugs adding more solemnity in the air as you both talked.

“Do you wish to go back to that time? And maybe be in a relationship with him?” you immediately shook your head ‘no.’

“No, no… not that kind of regret. I wouldn’t have agreed to be in a relationship either way. I was too young and too dumb; I know it won’t work out between us. I mean… I just get that feeling that we won’t.”

“Then why do you feel sad?” you mulled over his question, trying to form the right words that will truly explain how you really felt with everything that has happened.

“It’s something like… I wish I’d known so I could’ve rejected him right away? Is that cruel? I mean, maybe if I did that, we wouldn’t have gone through such pain for such a long time, get rid of the false hopes we had for each other. Hell, I don’t even remember anymore what it feels like to be really happy without thinking of such thoughts,” you sadly chuckled before shrugging and leaning back as you saw the people from faraway beginning to take their phones out, signaling that the fireworks show was almost beginning.

You felt Sakusa scoot closer to you; something you didn’t expect since you knew he never liked getting close to another person. You were sure as hell by now that all throughout the night, he was acting really weird; something different compared to his usual demeanor – not that it freaked you out though. If anything, you liked his slight clinginess too much… but you didn’t need him being weirded out so you opted to not saying anything.

“Is that your wish?” he quietly asked, making you jump out of surprise for his sudden closeness. His nimble fingers were on your chin, turning your head so you could look at his eyes that screamed a thousand feelings.

“W-what?” you breathed out, internally cursing because you didn’t even know how many times you’ve stuttered tonight.

“I’ve read somewhere that if you make a wish and… give the person beside you a kiss, it will come true so I’m asking you, is that your wish? To be truly happy,” he whispered, eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips. If this was any other person, you were pretty sure you would’ve slapped the wits out of him due to his statement’s ridiculousness but for some reason, you couldn’t move away from him.

“I… I think so,” you meekly nodded, gulping as he seemed to have no plan on moving at all. You think you can hear the fireworks crackling as it began to light up the sky, booming over the night sky as it tried to get your attention 

“I’ll try my best to make you happy then.”

… but the feeling of soft lips crashing into yours as soon as he said what he wanted to say was enough to leave you distracted. It wasn’t like anything you have imagined before; this – this was full of love, magic and adoration, something you have missed when you often wondered what it felt like to have a kiss. Heartbeats powering the sound of the explosions and sparks as he intertwined his fingers into yours, panting for breath when he released himself from you.

“Y-you.... kissed me... you hate germs... and I missed the fireworks,” you mumbled, feeling rather lightheaded from kissing him too long. He lightly chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning over to give you another peck.

“I think we can let those slide just this once.”

[megsironthrone]

Meg's Game of Tales: Tale 13

*Familiar Characters are NOT mine! The original tale of "The Snow Queen" was written by Hans Christian Andersen! As the story is actually 7 parts, I took inspiration from one particular part and a little from the Snow Queen episodes of OUAT.*

Warnings: The Snow Queen AU, magic. I think that's it.

Pairings: Jon Snow x fem!reader

Jon stifled a laugh as Arya glared at Theon defiantly. "You're lying! The Snow Queen doesn't take naughty children! Besides, I'm too old for children's stories. There's no such thing." For years, Theon liked to tease the younger Stark children with stories of the Snow Queen to scare them. It was only a story and Theon had changed it. Still, the real story was one of Jon's favorites. He had no idea that everything he thought he knew about the story was going to change.

*time skip*

The wind howled outside and the cold seeped through the stone walls of the holdfast. Even the fire roaring in the fireplace could only shut out the chill so much. It was the worst winter storm in years. "The Snow Queen is certainly angered tonight," Jon thought to himself then laughed, "It's a story, Jon. Nothing more."

He stopped at the mirror to check his face for injuries. Robb had gotten a bit aggressive during training as he was irritated at the prospect of having to remain indoors. When Jon gazed in the mirror, his brow furrowed. The mirror was cloudy. He used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe down the glass, jumping when he saw the reflection of a woman in the mirror. Jon whipped his head around to see an empty room behind. When he turned back, the reflection was gone.

As the dark-haired young man leaned closer to the mirror, he felt a chill run up his spine. Not the chill of a man suffering in the cold, but the chill of man who was frightened of something that had not even occurred yet. Cracks began to form in the mirror and an almost ethereal voice spoke. "You will see. You will be shown the true nature of people. You will see how they truly are and how they truly fell. And then you shall come to me. You shall rule by my side forever."

The mirror suddenly shattered, sending shards of glass flying at Jon's face. Jon closed his eyes, prepared to feel the stinging cuts, but none came. When he opened his eyes, the mirror was back to normal. There were no cracks to be seen and even the cloudiness was gone. Jon was confused, but shrugged it off after a moment. He went to bed feeling as though someone was watching him.

The next morning, Jon made his way down to breakfast with his family and stopped short. When he gazed upon the faces of everyone but the youngest Starks, he recoiled in disgust. They were themselves, but their eyes were almost demonic, dark and menacing. Their mouths were twisted in feral grins, showing razor sharp teeth. The sight was horrifying. But that wasn't the worst of it.

With their mouths, the family wished him a good morning, but that wasn't all Jon heard. It was if they were speaking in his head. He could feel hatred and malice pouring from them, weighing him down until he could bear it no more. Without even attempting to eat, Jon fled back to his chambers. Every person he passed shared the same terrifying face and same oozing hatred. It was too much. As soon as he was safely in his chambers, Jon slammed the door and barred it. No one was getting to him until he was prepared to leave.

In the back of his mind, Jon remembered the eerie voice from the night before, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had to leave. Suddenly, as if summoned, the voice spoke again. "I know, young Snow. It hurts. People often hide themselves, but they cannot hide from me. I can help you. I would accept you no matter what." Jon glance over at the mirror to find the same woman staring back at him.

"Y-You're the Snow Queen. The stories said you could use mirrors." The woman chuckled lightly. "I suppose you could call me that, though I prefer Y/N. As I said, come to me, Jon and I will be there for you. Forever." Jon's brows furrowed. "Why?" You let out a sigh and explained that you, although powerful, were lonely. "You aren't afraid of snow or the power it possesses. You could easily be my king, if that is what you wish. You need only follow the brightest star and you will find me. Or remain forever plagued by the demons that pretend to love you."

Now, Jon wasn't a coward by any means, but his visions that morning had shaken him to his very core. Not to mention, his curiosity was piqued. After all why should a powerful being such as you take such an interest in him? He glanced back at your figure in the mirror. You were watching him struggle to make up his mind. After a moment, you sighed. "As I said, the choice is yours. But understand this, I cannot always control what the snow does. It is ruled by my emotions. The longer I wait for your answer, the worse the storm becomes." Before Jon could reply, you disappeared.

True to your word, the storm outside kicked up, harsh winds accompanying the bitter cold as more and more snow began to fall. If it continued too long, Jon wouldn't even be able to leave the castle if he wanted to. Still, he couldn't just up and leave. Could he? Would it even be worth it? He could die before he even walked ten miles. As if in answer to his worries, a particular hard wind blew nearly breaking the glass of his window.

"Alright. I get it. Hurry up," he muttered to himself. It really shouldn't have been such a difficult decision. He should stay with his family. Jon knew that. But at the same time, he couldn't live with seeing them like that every day for the rest of his life. And you were offering him the chance of adventure. Of being something greater than what he was. With that in mind, he glance back at the glass.

"Are you there?" Your vision appeared once more and you smiled, as if you had been just sitting around waiting. "I will find you." Your smile grew and the storm outside began to quiet down. "Then follow the star until you find my castle. It looks to be made of ice. I will look after you on your journey." Once more, Jon was left alone with his thoughts.

The young man quickly threw some things in to a pack, grabbed his sword and snuck out of the castle. The journey was long and hard as he navigated his way through the snow and ice, passed all manner of creatures and more demon-looking people. But even as he trekked through the nasty weather, Jon didn't feel cold or frightened. He knew he should be. After all, snow was beautiful, but deadly. That was its nature. Perhaps he didn't feel afraid because you were watching over him as you said you would.

Jon lost count of how many days he traveled before he finally came upon your castle. It was just as you'd said. White and shining, like ice. It wasn't until he climbing the steps that Jon felt anything even close to fear. Still he kept on. He was too close to turn back now. When he reached the doors, they opened like magic.

Jon wasn't sure how he knew where to go, but he entered the castle and made his way to where he was certain you were. The castle, despite being one of the Snow Queen, felt warm and welcoming. Jon felt at home. So much so that he simply knew just where to go. Sure enough, another set of doors opened to reveal a throne room. You were perched on a throne of what looked like ice or glass and you smiled upon seeing him enter.

He watched as you rose from your seat and made your way down to him. You stopped right in front of him and gazed into his dark eyes. "Why me?" he asked quietly and you chuckled, "Because you believed. No matter what you told others, you always believed I wasn't some story. And now, we shall rule the winter together. Welcome, Jon Snow, my new Snow King."

(a/n: Here you are! Tale 13! We've got 5 more to go!)

[aikrus]

What It Means To Be Dead (Tokoyami x Reader)

Fandom: Bnha Warnings: Mentions of Dying, depression, bullying, abuse, and strong language Words: 2k259 Requested By: Anon <3 Request:  Hi I love your writing! Can I request one where Tokoyami )or anyone you'd like really,) finds a collection of old-ish diaries and letters while cleaning? The person's handwriting is very distinct and pretty (Think 1700's love letter find) but they never mention their name. As they read more of it they find newer entries where Aizawa is mentioned so they ask him about it only to find out the person who wrote them died almost 100 years ago and 'haunts' the school. (Sorry for long request) A/N: I deviated a little from the request, but I hope you like it!

            The night had already came and claimed the land of UA for itself. Shadows overtook the courtyards, and darkness fell across the classrooms, but not everyone had retreated to the safety of their comforters which shielded them from the secrets which the black abyss held so dear. 

After a draining day of learning and training, Tokoyami wanted nothing more than to go to sleep- sadly, it was his turn to clean the classroom. It was annoying and boring and he’d give anything to be able to go to sleep, but fair is fair and he wasn’t the tyrannical type.

And so, he washed the windows and wiped down the desks. He swept the floors and organized the textbooks, and he turned to put the broom back into the small closet in the corner of the classroom. With a heavy sigh, Fumikage realized he should probably tidy up the dirty, dust-filled, death trap that was called a broom closet. 

Narrowing his eyes at the cobwebs, he started to knock them down with the end of the broomstick (Seriously praying to whatever god there is that no spider fell onto his feathers). The room was in worse condition on closer inspection, it looked like not a soul had thought to clean it since the school was built. 

After taking the time to sweep the floors, wipe down the door and the counters, and organize the books, Tokoyami was beyond tired and ready to fall asleep in the still-somehow-dirty closet. No matter how many times he swung at the cobwebs, how many times he picked up the coats and books and papers on the floor, despite the effort he put into tidying up the smallish space, it still seemed to have a weird layer of age coating itself entirely.

The closet felt preserved in time, like the oldness it felt was not just in the items littered about, but in the very walls itself. The things it’s seen, the memories it held, something about the space simply felt... wrong. 

He turned to a corner he hadn’t worked on, inwardly groaning at the amount of work he still had to do despite the time of night. With a huff, he began to organize the textbooks and pages of work sprawled around the space. 

His hands fell upon and old leather book- very different in both appearance and age when compared to the marble notebooks that surrounded it. Leaning over, he saw ten to fifteen more of there journal like collections shoved deep into the corner of the room. 

Tentatively, he peeled open the first book. Looking at the pages, it looked to be the diary of a girl- the beautiful handwriting looked like it belonged to someone who saw the beauty that exists within the written language, someone who stops to smell the flowers, a person who looks at sunsets and bakes goods to say they love you. 

The ink that bled onto the early pages spoke of a student, a girl who wanted to be so much more, someone who wanted to save the world. He became enthralled by the speech patterns, the phrases and swirls of the letters drew him closer, enchanting his eyes to never leave the pages.

------ 

Soon the pages became all he could think about, even after he had to abandon the closet to race to bed. During class all he could think of was the feeling of the crisp paper under his touch. The voices of his friends seemed ugly, seemed to be missing the douse of honesty and beauty he had been exposed to, even when he was practicing all he could focus on was the experiences of the girl who wrote down all her inner thoughts. 

It was like she haunted him, appearing everywhere he went. Like she poisoned him, infecting his thoughts and feelings. She became everything to him so soon, every word had him on edge, every sentence a beautiful stream of imagery that he would give nothing but to experiencing along side her, what he wouldn’t give to see the world through her eyes of love.

As the day ended, he had quiet easily convinced Sero that he should take over his night of cleaning. Sure the actual work was quiet annoying, but he would be rewarded with her sweet words, he had left the book in the corner in his rush to get back to his dorm; he regretted his oversight the moment he laid down.

“Tokoyami, wasn’t your cleaning duty last night?” Aizawa asked, his eyes lazy looking up from the papers he was grading to make contact with Fumikage’s red ones. 

“Yes sir, it was. I volunteered to take over tonight as well,” 

“Mhm, and is there a reason for this?” He raised his eyebrow, dragging his briefcase off the table with him. 

“Cleaning helps me think,” this wasn’t a total lie, reading the journal will calm his raging thoughts of the mystery girl. 

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” his teacher echoed, not having enough energy to further investigate a seemingly innocent interaction.

Tokoyami was much faster with cleaning that day, and he was even faster to sprint inside the broom closet. He grabbed the leather books and raced back to his room, already feeling the warmth her voice provided. 

------------------------------

The passages started off innocent enough, complaints about school, fantasizing about a better life, just a teen writing down their emotions. It then morphed into the beauty in everything, words that didn’t release Fumikage’s eyes until they were tearing up from dryness. 

Then, things took a darker turn. Dark thoughts disguised in poems, things others have said to her, representation of her pain in drawings scattered throughout the book. The beautiful world- though still majestic in its own way- turned dark and twisted.

It was painful to read, and yet he couldn’t look away. It was like the book became a part of him- no. It was like he became a part of the book, nothing more than the cracked parchment and spilled ink. It was dehumanizing, but he wouldn’t change his position for anything in the world.

His bed was taken over by the old pages, dating back over two hundred years ago. The writer was in the post-quirk awakening. The world had just discovered the glowing child right before she was born. She was one of the first quirk holders in the world- one of the first one hundred Japanese citizens to have a quirk.

The journals started when she was ten- though that book was the fifth one he read. After that discovery, he categorized them in chronological order to read along with the flow of time. She wrote of the manifestation of her quirk- her parents had been struck with terror when their daughter walked through the wall of their living room to get into her bedroom. 

That was the first moment she realized how different she is. Her life never seemed to go back to the way it was before, not even after the initial shock of what she could do faded from her parents; because, there would always be a new shock, a new ability, and no one was prepared to help her.

He realized, reading more about how the quirkless treated her, that her life would have been much different is she had lived in his time. Hearing the slurs and bullying they  put her through, he wishes she could see how much the world has changed- would she be happy or sad that her bully's became the minority and were mocked in their normal-ness or if she would be ashamed of the people like her.

He was very satisfied that the people who made her life so awful were getting a taste of their own medicine, but he did wonder if that made him a bad person. Tokoyami figures that it really didn’t matter, she was gone so her opinion would never be known. 

--------------------

“Death didn’t feel like I thought it would. Surprisingly, it was reminiscent of when I use my quirk to posses things or people. My body was there, on the floor, but I was floating above it. Much like I am when I leave my body before finding my target. The cold was instantly recognizable- like an abyss with no end.

The only difference I’ve noticed so far is the lack of body to return to, though I can enter it, it acts as an object. While I cannot move it, I can see out of it. It’s therapeutic in a way. Really, this must have been the best case scenario- I could see how everyone reacts, see who really cares about me.

It was hard at first, seeing all theses people, who I believed were simply pretending to care, braking down behind closed doors. It was only my sister- whom held no quirk- that cared. She did everything she could to make my funeral how I wanted it, and she preserved my bedroom the way I liked it. That was a nice gesture, it truly was. 

Now my life has come to an end- my body buried under ground, never to be seen again- I can’t help but wonder what comes next. How long will I be held in this mortal world? Will others be like me, or will I be forced to live alone in the agonizing realization that comes with immortality? I guess I’ll simply have to wait and see,”

-----------------------

He had fallen asleep after reading the last passage in the ninth book- where she described how she stayed a student at UA even after death. The names she referenced had been lost in time- Pro-heroes that have long been dead and are now another name on the Hero Memorial wall. 

She had possessed her home room teacher and walked to the headmaster- there she said what had happened. Her headmaster agreed to keep her on as a student, but only under the condition that she wouldn’t unnecessarily possess an unknowing student. It was fair- annoying but fair. They gave her her old desk and she worked along side everyone. When he woke up, the book had moved on its own. 

There was a page opened- an elegant scipt sprawllled at the top but had been smuged since it was written- the only elligable part following what could be assumed to be a name: Phatom-- The Ghost Hero. The script was familiar, but it wasn’t the handwriting the rest of the journal was written in. Beneath it was a drawing of a girl- a girl more beautiful than anyone Fumikage had ever seen. It was a realistic depiction and it looked modern- it was only with that realization which led Tokoyomi to realize this journal wasn’t one he had seen before. Flipping through it, he hadn’t even noticed its sudden appearance. It was the newest one of them all- spanning for the last decade.  He leaned back in his bed and began,

So I guess it’s been a while huh? Here are some general updates: Shouta from class 2-A is an idiot but I guess he’s kinda cute. We picked out hero names today, I wanted to just keep my name but he dubbed me Phantom.. I called him Eraserhead in return. I hope it sticks. 

I’ve graduated from UA more than six times now- but I kinda like it. I do some professional hero work- especially info recall- but I’m worried about how the public will react to a ghost. It would definitely fuck with some peoples religious views. 

It’s better this way. I’ve also decided to distance myself from Shinso- she and I got along great, but her twin brother has been acting weirdly around me for a while. His quirk is amazing, but I’ve seen plenty of unstable students pass through these halls and I know enough to keep my distance. Shouta doesn’t seem to agree- neither does Hizashi. I guess only time will tell.

As for manifesting my physical form- it’s a lot harder than I had hoped. I can become visual for three active minutes or ten minutes with no moving. I’m still not touchable, but I hope that will change with time. That’s all for now- I’ll try to check in soon.

He shook his head- surely those names must be common, but she was in UA and only so many coincidences can happen at one time. He wonders how she was now. Mostly, he wonders if she’s still at UA. They hadn’t announced her as a student, so was she a pro hero now? 

Was it weird to still be in the body of a sixteen year old? There were so many issues with immortality- he wondered how she coped with it. These questions abused him throughout the morning. He thought of how lonely she must be, how it must be so awful to be all by herself.

He wondered why he cared so much- why had he developed such a strong scene of attachement to this girl? The fuzzy feeling in his chest when he saw the drawing of the girl had taken up his entire mind- he needed to know more.

As soon as he entered his familiar class room he marched straight up to his teachers desk with passion in his eyes- “Professor, can we talk after class? I have some questions I’d like to ask you,”

Aizawa glarred at the corner of the room, an annoyed frown tugging at his lips. This was gonna be a long day.

-------------------

A/N 

Sorry for dropping off the planet everyone! This has been in the drafts for a  long time and finally gets to see the light of day. I’ve had some mental health issues (not related to this story don’t worry) and am working on myself. I fully intend to finish the Christmas countdown I committed to and this account is still active, but this will remain on the back burner until I am well on my way to recovery. Requests will remain open for the time being and I will continue to make progress. Thank you for the lovely anon’s in my inbox with constant support and requests, I appreciate all of you. Thank you all and I hope you enjoyed this work <3

[uhthor]

Liv,,, the Loki finale,,, a tragedy. I want to hear all of your rants about it and also fuck d*sney

hello sweetie it’s been almost 48 hours and i’m still in shock and disbelief that the finale was that messy but i’ll try my best!

first of all, kang was the highlight of the episode. yes, his chat was long and complicated but jonathan majors was very very good and i cannot wait to see more of him in the mcu!

second, loki himself was incredible as always, sylvie was incredible, mobius was incredible & hunter b-15 was incredible. i have qualms about how messy it all was in the end with ravonna and wtf she been off doing (why were the minute men in ohio finding her on earth? there was no real conclusion to that, no real ending to her storyline and hunter b-15’s self realisation and rebellion which annoyed me to no end) and the ending was a dumpster fire cluster fuck. all three of the shows have been so ambitious with their plotting in the first 3/4 of the series and then the finales are just trying to wrap up so many things that nothing gets the justice it deserves and they need to Stop That Right Now because they just fall FLAT and disappoint

but the k!ss...... literally ruined the whole thing for me. loki as a character went through so much growth in a six episode series and i couldn’t be prouder of the way he changed and learned to believe in himself and that he was worthy of happiness. it’s truly some of the best work we’ve seen with loki in the entire mcu in my opinion.

miss minutes offered him a place in the timeline where he kills thanos and rules asgard and the loki in episode one would have jumped at that opportunity quicker than anything. episode six loki shed a few tears and remembered that he was worth more than that. that the cause was worth more than that, that people other than himself were worth saving and rescuing from the tva.

is that not the most incredible growth for loki? is that not the best growth we have seen alongside his growth in ragnarok? his main reasoning for not killing kang was to be able to help others and for sylvie to be okay. the fact the writers turned all of the growth he had made due to meeting sylvie on its head and had them kiss will always be disgusting to me.

they set the series up so well for loki to discover self love and worth through meeting sylvie, especially in that he said he just wanted sylvie to be okay in episode six — to me it will always still stand that loki learned to love himself and believe in his own worth through discovering he cared about sylvie in a non romantic way and that it changed him as a person. seeing a storyline of loki learning to love himself after a decade in the mcu of being made to be so inferior to everyone else by the people around him would have been the biggest love letter to loki and to loki’s fans, and tom.

it’s just so unfair and sad that they went down the route that they did. loki and sylvie had such a good relationship, something i saw parallel loki and thor’s relationship in the last ten years, and after loki was taken from the timeline and never allowed to see thor ever again, something good and stable and healthy loki could have had in his life from then onward.

but noooooo they had to make it romantic. they had to make things weird and they had to throw away a relationship they’d built so nicely with loki and mobius, too. people keep claiming that it wasn’t a romantic kiss and that sylvie was doing it to manipulate him and hit him where it hurts but as i re-emphasise again... there are literally thousands of other ways she could have done that. she could have hugged him. she could have just straight up pushed him. she could’ve pulled a hans of the southern isles and cupped his face and THEN pushed him. there literally had to be no romance involved. it was a choice made directly by marvel to engage in a selfcest relationship. there’s no ambiguity about it.

it also irritated me that people were saying it was typical for loki to fall for himself. we’re seeing a loki in this series like we’ve never seen before. he is so afraid of being alone and very clearly hates himself so much that to me, i don’t think he’d ever fall for himself. yes, he’s narcissistic, but he’s acknowledged that it’s only covering his absolute fear of being alone. i don’t think in any given circumstance would loki fall for himself because he loves himself. loki doesn’t love himself, which is one of the tragedies that this series focused on and created a beautiful journey with.

by meeting sylvie and learning that he cares about her and that she cares about him and believes that she deserved her own happy ending made him realise that he also deserves that, too. that’s the greatest love story that marvel should have written in this series after all the shit loki has been through. having him loving sylvie because she replicates his own self love and wanting her to be okay and have a happy ending is the way it should’ve gone. they are the same person, variations of the same person. her name is literally sylvie laufeydottir. they’re practically siblings. musical composer for the show natalie holt has said and i quote that loki looks at sylvie like he looks at his mother. ?!!!??!!!!!!??!??!? they’re family and it’s so so fucking weird for them to be romantic. it just ruined all of the work and excellence they provided in the first five and a half episodes and it pissed me off so bad. marvel have the uncontrollable need to pair every m/f that speak to each other for more than five minutes (st*ggy), even if they have no chemistry (bruc*nat, st*ron), EVEN IF THEY ARE RELATED OR THE SAME PERSON but won’t touch same sex relationships with a barge pole. funny, that

i just wanted the finale to solidify all of this — loki finally learning to love himself and discover that he has self worth and cares for others after his journey through the mcu being one of pure pain and suffering. i just wanted it to make sense and set up something with a tiny bit of coherence but i left the series more confused than i have ever been and just angry and betrayed really.

obviously i will watch season two and can only hope that things are fixed (wtf is going on with ravonna, hunter b-15, where is kid loki and allokigator, was the k!ss truly romantic, will they denounce all the selfcest etc. etc.) and don’t even get me started on the ending with mobius... not a jet ski in sight just fucking suffering. like twelve of my mutuals predicted he’d have his memories wiped yet it wasn’t any less painful when i saw it happen. justice for wowki, the actual only good and coherent and healthy relationship to come out of this series </3

also can someone PLEASE tell me if they saw casey anywhere cause eugene cordero was credited but i never saw my boy ONCE! he deserved BETTER!!!!

ok think i’m done tldr: fuck the finale i am gay and confused

[histoireettralala]

The Sacking of Joseph Fouché: The Downfall (4/4)

" Unfortunately, in his gleeful mystification, Joseph Fouché made a little mistake. He thinks, indeed, that he is playing with the inexperienced rookie of a duke, with a minister still in diapers.

But he forgets that this successor was nominated by a master who doesn't accept jokes. Besides, Napoleon is already watching with distrust Fouché's behaviour. This long hesitation in the handing over of his position, this open-ended postponement of his departure for Rome, displeases him. Moreover, the investigation opened against Ouvrard, Fouché's tool, has given an unexpected result: it revealed that Fouché previously already entrusted another broker with notes for the English office. And until now nobody yet has tricked Napoleon with impunity. Suddenly, on June 17, an incisive mail is sent to Fouché in Ferrières, sharp as the stroke of a whip:

"Monsieur le Duc d'Otrante, I beg of you to send me the note which was conveyed to you by M. Fagan, whom you sent to London to probe Lord Wellesley, and who brought you this lord's answer, of which I was never informed."

This is like the sound of a fanfare and able to wake up a dead man. Fouché ought to realize it by now. But it seems the Devil pushes him to want, very seriously, to measure himself against Napoleon, against the most powerful man in the universe. Because he declares to the envoy something which is entirely false, that he is extremely sorry, but he didn't keep any letter. He has burned everything. Of course, nobody believes that from Fouché and Napoleon even less than the others. A second time he warns him, in a rougher, more pressing way: we know his impatience. And now misdemeanour turns to obstinacy, obstinacy to insolence and insolence to provocation. Indeed, Fouché repeats that he doesn't have any paper anymore, and he bases the supposed destruction of the emperor's private files on a argument which is almost blackmail. His Majesty, he says with irony, honored him with such trust that, whenever one of his brothers aroused his dissatisfaction, he charged him, Fouché, to bring him back in line. And since then each brother shared with him his recriminations, he has considered it his duty not to keep those letters. His Majesty's sisters as well weren't always untainted by slander and the emperor himself had thought him worthy to be entrusted the secret of these rumours and had tasked him to seek which thoughtlessness was its source. It's clear and more than clear: Fouché is telling the Emperor that he knows many things and that he doesn't allow himself to be treated like a lackey [...] A second summon is issued by the new Police minister, the duke of Rovigo. But Fouché answers everyone with the same politeness and the same decisiveness that unfortunately, motivated by an excessive discretion, he burned the papers. For the first time a man in France openly resists the Emperor.

It is too much. As much as Napoleon, for ten years, underestimated Fouché, Fouché now underestimates Napoleon if he thinks he can intimidate him with a few indiscretions [..] Napoleon summons the chief of his private police, Dubois, and lets himself go in front of him to the most violent bursts of anger against "this wretched, wretched man". In his anger he comes and goes roughly and noisily and he suddenly shouts:

"Let him not think he can do with me what he did with his God, his Convention and his Directoire, whom he basely betrayed and sold! I have a longer sight than Barras, and with me it will not be so easy. Let him therefore be warned. But he has notes, instructions from me, and I intend him to return them to me. If he refuses, let him be put in the hands of ten gendarmes. Let him be taken to the Abbaye and, by God, I will show him that a trial can be done quickly. "

Now things are going bad. Now, Fouché himself starts feeling uncomfortable [..] Quickly, he writes now more and more letters, one for the emperor and others to various ministers, to complain about the distrust against him, who is the most loyal, the most genuine, the most righteous and the most faithfully devoted of all ministers, and in one of these letters it is pleasing to find this specific sentence: "It isn't in my character to change" (these words are literally written black on white by this true chameleon that Fouché was, as for the character). And, like fifteen years ago with Robespierre, he hopes he can still prevent the catastrophe by a quick reconciliation. He takes a carriage and goes to Paris to personally offer the emperor his explanations, or no doubt already also apologies.

But it is too late. He has played for too long, joked for too long; now there is no possible reconciliation, no possible compromise; the one who publically provoked Napoleon must be publically humiliated. A letter is written to Fouché, harsh, short and cutting, in a way Napoleon never used for other ministers:

"Monsieur le duc d'Otrante, your services cannot please me anymore. It is appropriate that you be gone for your senatorerie under twenty-four hours."

The tension was too great, the game too reckless; and now happens something very unexpected: Fouché, scared of his terrible situation, completely breaks down, like a sleepwalker who, unwittingly climbing on the roof and suddenly awakened by a sudden call, falls into the void. The same man who, within a hairsbreadth of the guillotine, kept his cool and his lucid thinking, pitifully collapses under the blow Napoleon struck him.

This 3 June 1810 is Joseph Fouché's Waterloo. His nerves break; he rushes to the minister to get a passport for a foreign land and, changing horses in every station, he flees without stopping anywhere till he reaches Italy. There, he goes from one place to another, running like a distraught rat on a burning hotbed [...] he begs Napoleon's sisters for help as well as sovereigns and friends; he appears and disappears suddenly, to the great displeasure of the policemen who are looking for and keep losing track of him; in short, he behaves like a madman, so great is his fear, and for the first time he offers, he the nerveless one, a truly clinical example of a complete nervous breakdown. Never, in one gesture, with one punch, did Napoleon crush an adversary in such a radical way than this one, who had been at the same time the boldest and the coldest of his servants.

[..]

Napoleon only wanted to impose his will, have his papers back, and he is completely successful. Indeed, while Fouché, distraught and as if hysterical, tires out his horses across Italy, his wife in Paris acts in a much more reasonable way. She capitulates in his stead. It is not questionable that, to save her husband, the duchess of Otrante gave back to Napoleon the papers Fouché had treacherously removed, since none of these private sheets on which the ex-minister based his threat of blakcmail ever reached the light of the day. Just like Barras' papers, from whom the emperor bought them as well as from the other inconvenient witnesses of his ascension, Fouché's files relating to Napoleon have disappeared without a trace. The emperor himself, or later Napoleon III, totally destroyed all documents which didn't conform with the official history.

In the end, Fouché receives the kind permission to get back to his senatorerie of Aix. The great storm calmed down; the lightning only shook Fouché's nerves, without hitting him to the marrow. On september 25, this desperate man enters his domain, "pale, unravelled, and showing in the incoherence of his ideas and the chaos of his speech a deeply damaged morale." But he will have all the time he needs to recover, because whoever rebels against Napoleon is for a long time put away from political affairs. The ambitious must pay the price of his entertainment: again the waves throw him into the abyss. For three years, Joseph Fouché will stay without dignities or employment: his third exile has begun."

Stefan Zweig- Fouché

[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven (ao3 only) | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen (ao3 only, smut) | chapter fourteen

chapter 14 - prince

SFW, around 4.7K words. Heisenberg is a man of absolutely no feelings I guarantee you

Heisenberg has never done this before, not in almost a hundred years of existence, this tangling of limbs and shirking of duties. He has never once given in to such base urges without careful thought and consideration, instead preferring his encounters planned, short and sweet, in and out before anyone could get attached. He racks his brains looking for things to say once she is awake, for ways to tell her that this means nothing and that they will go back to being flirty acquaintances who spoke to each other in riddles. He digs deep into his thoughts to bury his feelings, refuses to acknowledge their existence long before they can rear their ugly heads. He breathes in, eyes closed, to gather his confidence, to build his persona like he did with the dawn of each new day. Whoever Karl Heisenberg truly was, truly wanted to be, he died every morning and was replaced by a driven, heartless monster.

She was a smart woman, she would get the hint. He will unwrap her arms from his torso, put his clothes back on and make some stupid comment about how she had a pair of tits to die for, but he had already been far too generous by gracing her with his presence this long. Then he will smirk and exit stage left, hold the mask until he is out of sight and has entered the forest, and will finally be done with the theatrics. Perfect plan, until his breath catches in his throat when she first stirs, fingers sleepily caressing his chest like she did the night before. He curses her for never making things easy on him.

She seems confused as she pulls away from him, her lazy stretch reminding him of a cat after a long nap. Her face has softened some, the usual furrow of her brow relaxed, deviant smile replaced with one of pure serenity, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. “Good morning, my lord,” she greets as she rubs sleep away from her eyes, and he is glad to notice her tone has changed, away from the throes of their passion and back to the casual nonchalance they had become used to treating each other with. “Did you sleep well?” He has no intentions of answering and she does not expect it, either, slides off the couch to gather their clothing scattered about. She hands him his without looking at him, dresses in silence as he does the same. The silence is tense but not awkward, like they were both content to ignore the existence of the other and of everything that had happened between them just hours prior. “Are you staying for breakfast?” The implication that she did not expect him to is crystal clear. If there was any hope of staying longer in his mind, she had quelled it quickly with that question, like she was done with him for the day, perhaps enough to last her a lifetime. It stings, but he is glad for it.

Heisenberg busies himself with putting his clothes back on - whoever’s clothes those were in the first place -, oblivious to her pacing around the house. He believes he is out of the woods and her reserves of kindness have run dry, only to lift his head and find her holding a basket with a loaf of bread in one hand and his trench coat in the other. From afar he can see it looks ten times better than it did when he walked in wearing it, cleaner, for one, holes stitched back together. He doesn’t stay and she sees him off with the same joy she has always shown him, watching him as he grabs the trench coat and food, then his hat from a hook next to the door, waving him away like she has done every time. They sign an unspoken contract that dictates they never speak of it again, though the fine print reads that it is not off the table and might once again come to pass if the opportunity ever presents itself. His journey back to the factory is quiet and uneventful in more ways than one, the forest sleeps away the early hours of the morning and his mind is void of thoughts and worries. He cannot help but notice that the world feels different, brighter, more vibrant even, the wind not hostile and instead a gentle breeze.

Heisenberg seems enveloped in a mist of cheer and placidness for the days that follow, all he has set in motion moving along like clockwork. Sturm awakens unbidden one night, for good this time, both a blessing and a curse upon him. He manages to study its performance and sketch improvements, however finds that he has forgotten to install an off switch on the damn creature. The freak hums and whirs night and day like it is singing him the song of its people, sometimes joyfully, sometimes in mourning, and that he is able to identify when the fucking thing is happy or sad is a clear indication that he has been listening to it for far too long. A stab of guilt hits him every time he yells down towards the bowels of the factory to tell the monster to shut it, he needs to work and the noise is maddening, but he is always reminded that he is the reason for it all, he has bestowed them all with a new lease of life and now has to deal with the consequences. This is all for a good cause, he reassures himself, and once the rebellion is over he will see to it personally that those who remain are given a humane dismantling and burial.

Every now and again he visits his little witch in the woods, when his days could have been better and he needs a pick-me-up. They never speak of the stormy night and the things they had done, not unlike he had planned, but speak of everything else, and they slowly climb the steps to an awkward friendship that is never truly allowed to blossom. It felt as if every time they would give each other a key, an intricately designed, golden key that would open the lock in their hearts. And every time one would try to open it, they would find yet another, stronger lock, closer to the end but not quite, mystery maintained. It was infuriating and addicting all at once, and he had grown quite fond of the back and forth that had become the most exciting part of his life.

Happiness is a drug that he should not indulge on, he decides. Amidst his work he plans something other than rebellion, other than murder. Sketches something other than machines, looks out the window on the top floor of the factory to daydream about the cabin that stood long abandoned at the edge of his land. It was large for a home in this ass-end of the world, two floors and an attic, a cellar that was used for coal storage and doubled as secret entrance to a tunnel connecting the house and the factory. A fenced garden in the backyard, a shed for tools and firewood. The outhouse was awkwardly placed, too close to the edge, but he had always thought it gave it some extra charm. Answer nature’s call while being dangerously close to it, as it were. The masonry oven outside had not been used for at least half a century, and the well had probably dried up by now. It had been his home for many years, before Miranda took away everything that was theirs and his life with it, before he began dedicating his life to rebellion and dreams of freedom. His room was the one at the end of the corridor upstairs, with a view of the river and the forest extending beyond the confines of the village. It was cramped and cold, a single floorboard always rattled during the night when the wind hit it, the window never fully closed and his father never bothered to fix it. Still, it was home, or it had been, and he sometimes found himself thinking of the good memories he’d had before it all went to shit.

Could it be home again, he wondered? It would be one hell of a spring project, between clearing the debris, dusting and fixing everything up. Nails and the corrugated metal roof would not be a problem, naturally, and the stonework of the first floor was still intact. But he hadn’t fixed a fence in many years, hadn’t sawed nor sanded a plank of wood in longer still. He had never been very good at cleaning anything except weapons and machines, and interior decorating was simply something that had never gone through his mind. It could be a home again, he mused as he brought the blowtorch close to his face to light his cigar, and maybe it would do him good to step away from the damp vapors of the factory every once in a while. But then again, would it be worth the effort and upkeep? He doubted the haulers would make good housekeepers, and he was content enough with his independent, bare, unkempt bachelor lifestyle. But those had never been his intentions, had they? A home but not for him, a home for her, right where he could see her, where he could walk a few minutes and knock on her door whenever.

All strictly professional, of course. She would be effectively isolated from the village and the outside world. Effectively isolated from everyone but him, and he could keep tabs on her and call upon her services when necessary. It was a proposal she would be dumb to refuse: a home easily three times bigger than the one she owned, a larger plot of land for her animals and garden, peace and quiet, access to the Duke for supplies, and even some fun every now and again if she played her cards right. There was also the matter that she would be… Safer, living so close to him, but that was of little importance. Naturally. It had only just occurred to him. He had not begun at that, no. He will give it some more thought over the next few weeks - neither of them would be going anywhere, now would they?

Mother calls him later that day to inform of a family meeting two weeks and a half away, to discuss usual business. They will gather at Donna’s this time around, and it should give them all an opportunity to parade themselves to the public. This is important, you see, she begins like she always does, for their worshipers grow restless with their absence. Heisenberg often feels like she has trained the villagers as one would a dog: starve them for long enough and give them a meager treat to keep them going, teach them that their devotion is rewarded with small miracles brought by hellfire and the tearing of flesh by lycans. He has spent far too long away from the public eye and it is always good practice to remind the villagers of his splendor, she continues. He agrees to strut down main street, bless every crafter that he comes across, and kiss the top of the head of every snotty child pushed in his direction by their parents. He even agrees to wear his Sunday best: the same thing he wore every single day, but with a shiny pin in the shape of his house’s crest.

He conceives his greatest idea yet in the meantime, a soldier that combines the combat capabilities of Eins and Zwei with the mobility of an aircraft. He has Sturm to thank for it, the incessant spinning of the blades having given him the spark to try and create a flying machine. No propeller blades, he decides as the very first thing when he begins drawing the schematics. He has had enough of the noise to last him a good couple of decades. Unsurprisingly, he is caught in a trance of working and passing out and waking up to work some more in the weeks that follow, entire days spent combing through the scrap heaps to find the right materials. He is reminded that the goddamn bed had done wonders for his back every time he deadlifts another engine to pick apart, but still refuses to say goodbye to his uncomfortable armchair and the wonderful massage of its loose springs.

He figures the name for it will strike him at the right moment, and for now focuses on adjusting the thrust speed, ensuring the soldier will land adequately and not simply crash while airborne, as funny as that would look. While Sturm required a sturdy specimen, this will need someone lighter, lankier, and he finds the perfect specimen in Miranda’s latest failed experiment, a young boy of some twenty years who had been orphaned long ago and had turned to the Black God for guidance. In truth, he was nothing more than an errand boy for Mother, bringing messages to and fro, collecting tithe and offerings for her. Heisenberg is curious to know what horrible sin has led him to where he is now, dead and open on his operating table, a wound bigger than his fist where the top of his spine should be. Cadou had begun to take hold when he passed, tendrils shooting out of the infection, and he saved the recently dead nematode for further study later.

Removing the organs is always the messiest part, and he drops armfuls of guts into a nearby bucket to discard later. The boy has broken ribs and is missing his heart, a sign that he had greatly felt Mother’s wrath. Heisenberg almost pities him, alone in the world with nothing but his faith to keep him going, but sooner or later he would have to learn that was the way of the world. It had worked just fine for him, painful but invaluable. He had played the cards he had been dealt and come out on top. Perhaps in another life he would have reached out to give the kid a hand, take him in and give him a job, so long as he stayed out of his way and kept his mouth shut. But then again, perhaps in another life circumstances would not have turned him to a ruthless bastard only out for himself.

Setting up the tubing always takes the longest, delicate work that requires his full attention and steady hands. It feels like fighting an octopus at the best of times, and it is a fight he does not always win. He blows away a hair strand that insists on obscuring his vision, but all he succeeds in is having more of it fall onto his face, beads of sweat also finding their way down his forehead to pool on his brow and slide onto his eyelashes. He wishes he had an assistant every time he does this, every time he pulls a corpse open and finds that his body seems to get in the way every time more than the dead one does. He wishes he had an assistant, remembers the offer he never made her, and regrets it an instant later.

Suddenly his mind has wandered away from his subject on the operating table and has wandered off into a fantasy world, where his little witch gently pulls his hair back to tie it securely away from his face, where she dabs away the sweat on his face with a cloth that smells of wildflowers. She stands patiently next to him, takes notes and follows orders, brings him refreshments and even gives his shoulders a good rub when she feels he has been working too hard. A world where she awaits him every night after a long day, where she greets him with the comfort of home and a hearty meal. His focus is lost from that moment onward, for he is taken with the need to see her, to spend time sitting quietly beside her near the fireplace. To hold her and watch her fall asleep in his arms, to hear her laughter and exchange glib lines with her after dinner.

Goddamn witch.

The poor boy suffers the brunt of his annoyance when Heisenberg punches the side of his ribs, the body resists but does not complain and helps none with doing away with his wishes. What was he thinking, losing sight of his goals because he wants his cock sucked? This is why it was always so much better to stay indoors, to kill such annoying roaches on sight. His carefully constructed mental balance has tumbled, his nirvana disturbed. He was doing just fine before she decided to kill some random lycan and forgot to hide the fucking body. Bored, but just fine. Lonely, but fine. Incredibly depressed, but f-i-n-e. He tries in vain to return to his work once, twice, and gives up on the third time, finally accepting that it would be impossible.

Perhaps it is best if he gets it over with, no? This was but a momentary stumble. He had all but forgotten about her for the better part of a fortnight, having instead turned inward towards his work and growing his intel network by skulking around and reading through papers Miranda had ‘lost’ in transport. Just as quickly as he had latched onto her, he had let her go, back to the hum-drum day to day of developing his metal army.

Or so he thought, faced now with a burning need to walk, almost run towards the forest to catch a glimpse of her again.

He looks down at himself, for the first time conscious of how presentable he was, and decides that it is probably best if he wears something that is not covered in rotting chunks of flesh. Somehow he does not think she will mind it; she strikes him as the kind of woman who would think it adds to his charm. He changes into cleaner clothes regardless, the same moss-colored shirt she had given him the day he showed up at her cabin. An idea shines upon him as he tightens his shoelaces, and he is soon giving orders over the comm system to all haulers: clean the damn place up. Throw the garbage up and over the railings onto the scrapheap, hide it under a carpet, it doesn’t matter. He wants the place presentable enough for him to bring his little witch over - he will tell her a little bit of what he intends, he will show her some of his plans, and he will ask her to work for him. The cabin would take a while but she could always drop by for a visit. All that he has decided in the span of less than a minute, and he hopes there will be enough time for everything to be set up when he makes his way back, holding her hand tightly as he shows her all of the wonders he has created. He also hopes he can keep up the momentum and not soil the plan by chickening out a while later, though something in his mind tells him that might be best.

Heisenberg stops in front of a mirror-like metal plate to check out his hair and wipe the blood of his face, at last satisfied with his appearance and ready to make his next move. He almost skips through the factory on his way up and out of the garage. He is getting laid tonight, goddamn it.

He is surprised to find the Duke’s carriage standing just outside. It must be a Tuesday, though he feels like he last saw the man yesterday; the merchant always completed his regular schedule around the village by making a last stop near - and in - his humble abode. He had much to discuss with the Duke, things of both professional and personal nature, but now was not the time, and he walked by briskly and greeted the man with a tip of his hat, intent on simply passing by.

He knows something has gone terribly wrong when the Duke cackles, and he spots the familiar tail wag of a furry hoofed animal beside the carriage. Heisenberg stops dead on his tracks then, a cold tingle running up his spine, his mouth dry. He stares at the man, mouth agape, trying to form his question but failing miserably. Had something happened? Had the Duke known about her all along? Had he done something to her? The Duke is the first to speak, his usual jolly self, oblivious or uncaring for the situation that has begun to unfold in front of him. “Ah, Lord Heisenberg! How’s the day find you?” There is a pregnant pause as Heisenberg looks at the merchant and back at the tiny goat that bleats at him incessantly, and the Duke roars in laughter, his massive frame shaking the entire carriage. “Oh, it seems the little one likes you! Two hundred lei and it is all yours, my lord. Should be quite the tasty dinner.”

Prince seems to understand its predicament, and cries ever louder, until it is all they both can hear and the sound almost drives him insane. “Where the fuck did you get it?” Is all he manages to say, his tone vicious, but the Duke does not seem to mind it. He looks around for any other signs of her, the dog, or the horse, a chicken, anything.

“My friend in the woods has sold it to me, of course. She no longer has any use for it where she is going, and thought it best to rehome it.” The merchant’s hand reaches out to pet the goat on the head and the whole carriage almost topples over with the weight.

“You know her.” It is not a question, and though there is much he needs to ask there is little he is able to process.

“Indeed. We have been friends for many years, her and I. Since she was a malnourished little girl living under Lady Heisenberg’s protection. Since long before you were born, my lord.” The man takes a long drag from his cigar as if to give Heisenberg enough time to go through his words, and he is glad for it, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. A hundred and something years, the mention of his grandmother’s name. “She has always been quite the ravaging beauty, however. Although I’m sure that has not escaped your notice.” He can hardly contain his exasperation, not at all used to the feeling that currently boils within him. If that man had ever touched her- “She is quite a talented healer, you see. For many years now she has supplied me with the most wonderful of concoctions.” As if to prove it, he lifts up a bottle of the antiseptic he has become so famous for, gives it a little shake and flashes Heisenberg a bright smile.

“She’s gone.” Again he doesn’t ask, simply repeats the information he has been given, and wishes he had his hammer close by to crush that smirk off the Duke’s face.

“Why yes, she has left, of course. It would not be the first time,” the merchant says with a shrug. “A free spirit she is, always has been. Off to find herself some excitement and adventure, I’m sure. I have told her many a time that the village life does not suit her,” he puts the bottle down and interlaces his fingers in front of him, resting on his enormous stomach. “Yet she has come back every time. Sweet, idealistic Morganna, always so kind for her own good.” In his confusion, Heisenberg realizes he has forgotten to breathe, and inhales sharply, blow after blow though he tries to recover, and the Duke is relentless. “Ah, that reminds me, she has left something for you.” He is no longer listening after the Duke’s mouth closes, far too stunned to process what is happening. The blond man hands him a small wooden box that smells like her, and Heisenberg does not care that he can see how much his hands are shaking as he pushes off the lid. He does his best to swallow the rage and the tears that well up in his eyes, the bittersweet thought that she had remembered him before she parted. The woolen slippers lay perfectly arranged inside the box. “If you wish to find her, I am sure she has not made it very far.” Heisenberg continues to stare down incredulously, and the Duke continues to yap like nothing has happened. He has tuned out completely by the time he closes the box again and raises his head to face the merchant. He might as well have been a shadow, disoriented as Heisenberg was, his face a misshaped blob in his eyes. There is no space for thoughts and he lets himself go instead, anger bubbling so close to the surface underneath his skin.

He grabs the goat before the Duke can protest, tucks it safely under his arm, box secured in the other as he marches back inside the barn and closes everything behind him. Gone? The way down is hazy and red, one foot after the other, instinct taking him through the halls and down elevators. Gone. He feels the haulers’ gazes upon him, and hopes they won’t dare showing vestiges of humanity now, or he will kill every last one and set fire to the corpses. The door to his quarters is kicked with entirely too much force and flies off its hinges, he places Prince gently on the floor in the last showing of kindness he would ever allow himself. Gone! The box is thrown across the room and shatters against the wall, tears in his eyes, a strangled cry coming out of him before he can stop himself.

“She’s gone.” He repeats and the words feel like sand in his mouth. He knows them to be true and it only serves to hurt him further. Behind his eyelids, she takes him by the hand and skips down the stairs ever onward towards the darkness, and he knows he is far too weak to stop it now. He has no tools to explain any of it, the crying and yelling and the way his body has slid against the wall and onto the floor like a puddle of muddy, gooey, revolting water. One last bit of control tells him that he should not care, that she is not important, that this is good, that he is free from her grasp. But its screeches are drowned in the uproar within him, and all he can think of is that she is gone and he misses her.

He is once again alone in the world and, for the first time, he knows what heartbreak feels like.

[book-dragon-etcetera]

Why Mantis and Loki should be a thing; fight me (please don’t I swear I’m nice).

What makes a good relationship subplot? Actually, scratch that – this is the MCU, we don’t go for mediocrity – what makes the best relationship subplots? It can vary, but my favourites, the ones that keep me digging and digging, coming back every time I think of a new angle (you’re in the fandom tags, you know what I’m talking about) always tie into the wider story. They feed character growth; allow new concepts to be explored; fit in with and in some cases represent the greater themes of a story.

In case you haven’t guessed, I’m going to be arguing that Loki and Mantis could be something along those lines. Something great. One of the best, most interesting relationships of modern screenwriting. I know, okay!! I know, it feels weird as anything – it’s taken me a while, too. But bear with me, and worst-case scenario, you’ll have a new take on a fascinating pair of characters.

Before I put the two together though, I feel like I need to do a little character study for Mantis. So far, she has had little to no clear development and without serious thought of your own, she seems entirely one-dimensional; two at best. In case you have not plugged hours and hours of thought into a character with barely ten minutes of screen-time, here are some of my thoughts, free of charge 😊. Incidentally, the interpretation I take to enhance my viewing experience (and add suitably crippling levels of angst :D ) ties her in perfectly with Loki’s story and character.

More Than Just a Bug: A Minor Study

What we know: Mantis has spent her whole life in servitude to Ego a massively powerful being, intent on taking over the universe, who sees all other life as inferior, insect-like (hence the name ‘Mantis’ – happenstance in the comics, derogatory in the films). Whether she has ever met anyone else is unclear, and until we actually see her talk about it, we’ll never know. Going by her comfort in talking to the Guardians, and also the fact that she anticipates the result of Ego’s meeting with Peter, I’m going to assume she has, but more specifically, that they were Ego’s other children.

Imagine this, if you will. Mantis, since her childhood, has been intermittently exposed to Ego’s offspring. They appear, are doted on for a few days, and then vanish as suddenly as they came. Not having been delayed by the Ravagers that collected them (as Peter was), they are all young children, with strong but changeable emotions. As such, they fit Ego’s narrative of universe full of mindless beasts, unthinking and impermanent. If Mantis were not an empath, able to feel their distress and confusion at the kidnapping, they would have no impact on her at all. As it is, they give her no epiphany, but rather a slow sense of unease that grows over time, as child after child is reduced to a pile of bones in a cave.

Her uncertainty must of course be hidden from Ego, who may be too narcissistic to imagine she could ever turn against him, but would certainly kill her if he saw her doubts, so she separates herself from the feeling. Her outer self remains uncomplicated and pliant, still attempting to please her adoptive father-figure, while her inner self languishes in steadily deepening turmoil. She dissociates to survive, until she almost believes it herself.

Now let’s try looking at her scene with Drax, where she touches his arm by the flower-filled lakes, through this new lens.

BEWARE. THIS SCENE WILL BECOME SIGNIFICANTLY MORE PAINFUL IF YOU ASSIMILATE THIS INTERPRETATION.

To recap: Mantis has spent her life in a state of slowly growing unease over the pain, suffering and subsequent deaths of Ego’s many children. Her only comfort has been his assurances that all other life is meaningless, and as such their suffering weightless. By Mantis’s own design, this inner struggle has been buried deep, totally inaccessible. Therefore, she goes into this scene entirely intending to allow Ego to kill the Guardians, and if Peter is successful, the universe.

Alright, here goes:

So, Mantis seems normal (normal??) for the first section. She reacts suitably when Drax calls her ugly, and then when he argues that it’s a good thing. When he mentions his lost daughter, she makes a joke (incidentally the sort of play-a-crooked-thing-straight joke that Loki might enjoy), but then Drax compares his daughter to Mantis, calling them both ‘innocent’, and she makes this face when he isn’t looking at her.

This is not a naïve look, and I don’t think it’s meant to be. The tiniest edge of that inner guilt, her natural empathy for the terrible fates of Ego’s children, is bleeding through against her will, brought to the surface by a father mourning the loss of his daughter. Wanting to understand, and partly in fear of what she might find there, she reaches for his arm.

When she feels his grief, she is physically affected, taking large gasps of air with glittering eyes. It’s easy to forget, but in some ways, Drax is the most emotionally developed of the Guardians. He had a wife, and daughter, and a home. He’s lived through what most of us would determine a normal life, and reached middle age. Quill, Gamora, Groot – they’re all younger than him, and therefore less emotionally developed. (I have no idea what age Rocket is, but at least by maturity he can certainly be added to the list.) This level of experience is where Drax’s moments of unexpected wisdom come from. He is a fully realised person with all the complexities and regrets that come with age, something Mantis has never felt in anyone except Ego. And he is mourning his daughter.

When she touches his arm, Mantis is feeling one of the worst losses, the deepest hurts that a person can ever experience, even dulled by years: the loss of a child. But for her, it’s even more than that. It’s personal. She realises in that moment that on the other end of every one of Ego’s children was someone like Drax, feeling what he felt. That they were still out there in the universe, mourning the sons and daughters that Mantis had met. It tilts her world on its axis, and we get a close-up to watch it:

This is her guilt, her worst fears validated. She can no longer use the ‘we’re just insects anyway’ justification to excuse the cavern of bones. Every tiny doubt she has ever had now has an explanation, and it means she has grown up complicit to atrocities she couldn’t even recognise. Upset, and guilty that he still believes her innocent, she turns immediately to Drax, knowing she can no longer stand by do nothing. They are interrupted by Gamora before Mantis can explain, so later that night, knowing she cannot bear being complicit yet again to murder, Mantis wakes Drax and betrays Ego, despite her fear and love for someone who has been (literally) her whole world.

Go watch the scene thinking about Mantis's guilt, I dare you. I did, and it hurt me.

By the end of GotG2, we have a Mantis still conditioned to serve the father she has now killed. His teachings have left her with crippling self-doubt, and a sense of personal inferiority that as of yet we have not seen her question, despite a truly incredible level of power (subduing first Ego – an actual planet – and then Thanos; I’ll go into her frightening Gamora later), and her own heroism. She is incapable of being righteously angry at Ego, because righteously implies right, something it does not occur to her that she might have. And she hides it all, because over the years she has built an unconscious self-defence mechanism which allows her to control people’s actions towards her by seeming harmless and sweet. The ultimate deflector of aggression.

What her motives and feelings might be now she has found her freedom, I also have some thoughts on, but that is a topic for another day (possibly a Loki including day, hmm?). I feel like it’s important to mention that, although this is a dark interpretation, that doesn’t mean I think Mantis is a dark character. There is inherent darkness in the horror of her past, but some of the best and brightest people in the world are people who have been to hell and back, and come back kinder for it. One day, when she has learnt some self-worth, and ditched the clothes that she wore as a slave to a monster, I think she could be one of the best, most impressive, and nuanced heroes we have ever seen.

[gringolet]

hi why do you ship gawain with lancelot? not trying to start shit im just curious

God so this is a true fact but I’ve been thinking about them since sophomore year of high school (i'm a college sophomore now) so this is going to be lengthy and involved. But i think Lancelot and Gawain have a really interesting dynamic as well as a lot of support in text which i think makes them compelling.

    In a lot of ways they are equals in a way neither of them is with anyone else-- they are, in the vulgate at least, the two best knights in the world, the two arthur trusts most and who are famous even among other good knights. Its almost isolating, that level of renown, and you see that Lancelot in particular is uncomfortable with it, though they both at times have stories of trying to escape their own names. Of course they would understand each other in a way no one else could.

    Despite the fact that Lancelot quite literally steals his place as number one, gawain is never resentful of this, never upset to lose to lancelot. In fact he seems very happy to sing his praises to anyone he meets, like in Lancelot and the Hart with the White Foot, where he says of lancelot that “He is the best knight alive in the entire world, and moreover the most handsome.”

    In the stanzaic morte, he tells elaine of shallot that 

“Such a leman as thou hast one,

 In all this world ne be no mo.

There is no lady of flesh ne bone

In this worlde so thrive or thro,

Though her herte were steel or stone,

That might her love holde him fro.”

Or, translated,

Such a love as you have, 

there’s no better in the world.

There is no lady of flesh or bone,

In this world so lucky or stubborn

Though her heart were steel or stone,

She could stop it  from loving him.’

In the vulgate hes constantly running after lancelot, happy to play sidekick as long as it means lancelot's company. He pretty infamously says this about lancelot:

Then Sir Gawain thought a little, like a man who believed he would never be well again. “If God were to grant me my health,” he said, “I’d immediately wish to be the most beautiful maiden in the world, happy and healthy, on condition that he would love me above all others, all his life and mine.”

I think this is really interesting because its not a devotion gawain shows to anyone else outside of his family. Hes oddly protective of lancelot, considering he can very well fend for himself usually. In the dutch hart, he literally tracks down and kills a man who hurt lancelot, before tying his body to his horse and dragging it around like achilles. He also rescues and heals him in morien, gets the whole court in a tizzy looking for him after a battle with galehaut where he spends a year searching, drags lancelots poor cousins all over looking for him after a tournament, freaks out when he goes missing in the hart (: “He lamented more grievously than anyone ever will, or had ever done before, because he thought he had lost Lancelot, the daring knight.”) like jesus gawain calm down.

He explicitly forsakes his devotion and duty to the country in favour of lancelot; in morien, hes called to take his place as king because arthur is gone, and he refuses in favour of, you guessed it, running after lancelot.  In chretien it is said that 

“Now I will tell you the truth, and you must not think I lie, that Gawain would not wish to be chosen king, unless he had Lancelot with him. “

And he lies to arthurs face multiple times in the vulgate and morte to hide lancelot's various crimes.

Speaking of crimes, theyre both uh, well. Literal serial killers. And you know its good to have hobbies in common in a relationship. No but seriously they represent a lot of the darker parts of knighthood. From lancelots bit with the proud knight in kotc to gawains… what can be only described as massacres in the dutch texts. They both have very odd relationships with death, with gawain so familiar with it by being surrounded by violence from a young age that it no longer affects him, while lancelot is almost the opposite-- its very distant to him. 

I think thats another reason i like them; theyre similar in a lot of ways but in just as many they are opposites. Gawains whole deal is being charming, manipulative, educated and good with words. Lancelot is in contrast, especially in chretien and the vulgate, at his most inept in social situations. You note that in the hart, its gawain that has to talk him out of the marriage he accidentally agreed to (“ But he does not at this time wish to marry you-- you must understand...”) etc.  while gawain is centered at court in a web of political alliances, lancelot is a fair unknown, who can and does disappear for years and generally avoid court when he can. I think they work well as a team because of this.

Lancelot certainly think so, at least in the morien: Quoth Sir Lancelot: "By the Lord who made me, and who shall be Doom's-man at the last day, come what may thereof, since Sir Gawain rideth hence 'tis not I will bide behind!”

He isnt as quotable outside of one specific scene ill get to later, and most of what he does say is in aside to himself, like the lengthy speech he gives in knight of the cart while debating to himself why gawain has failed to rescue him, and if this means gawain doesn’t love him (“He ought indeed to receive your aid whom you used to love so devotedly! For my part I may truly say that there is no lodging place or retreat on either side of the sea, where I would not have searched for you at least seven or ten years before finding you, if I knew you to be in prison. But why do I thus torment myself? You do not care for me even enough to take this trouble.”) trust me it goes on like this for quite a while. 

On a side note, i think its a bit reminiscent of a scene from the vulgate where gawain thinks that lancelot is in  love with elaine of shallot--

 “That night he thought a lot about Lancelot and said to himself that he would not have thought that Lancelot would have aspired to leave his heart in any place that was not nobler and more honourable than all others. ‘And yet,’ he said, ‘I cannot really blame him if he loves this girl… (he goes on in debate with himself)...

    That night Sir Gawain slept very little, because he was thinking of the girl and Lancelot,”

the morte specifically calls gawain the man lancelot loves most in the world, according to a prophecy of merlins. Then, the kicker: he kills gawains brothers on accident, gawain swears to kill him in revenge, and lancelot…. Refuses to kill gawain, or even to renounce love for him. When asked about the fight, he says:

 “I do not know what the outcome will be, but I do know that if I were the winner and ought to cut off his head, I should not be able to kill him for all the world, because I think he is too noble. Moreover, he is the man, out of all those in the world that have meant anything to me, that I have most loved, and still do,”

Gawain forgives him on his deathbed and writes a letter, the entirety of which i implore you to read. He begs lancelot’s forgiveness and for him to return from france and see gawains tomb, “for all the love that was betwixt us”

I think you could interpret this as a very passionate friendship, certainly, but i am gay and so i think they are too. Not only because of the texts but because of the fact that their dynamic is fun and interesting and they work well together.

Oh, and if anyone was wondering why i call them remarkable, here is another quote from the vulgate, following the first fight with gawain:

‘It is certainly remarkable of you,’ said King Bors, ‘to love him so deeply when he hates you mortally.’

‘Find it remarkable if you wish,’ replied Lancelot, ‘but he will never be able to hate me so much that I stop loving him.’

[mimik-u]

Flower Child (Chapter 14): Night

AO3 Link

6:10PM:

For the last fifteen years, Jay Zircon had been Diamond Electric’s top lawyer alongside her sister and fellow counsel, Gilda. Whatever lawsuits the company faced—and it had faced more than its fair share—the pair headed the legal team which incisively ensured victory for their illustrious CEO, Yellow Diamond. 

Where Gilda was aggressive and willing to snipe beneath the belt, a style that suited their similarly minded boss, Jay was more circumspect in her methodology, able to work through all the variables of a given case to create a slower but undeniably thorough position. When the two of them worked together, they made a dichotomous but somehow remarkably fluid team.

They didn’t lose very often.

They couldn’t afford to lose given the status, prestige, and formidable demand of their employer, who also didn’t lose.

Very often.

(Yellow Diamond had lost her only child four years ago, and it was clear to everyone, to all who knew her, that she hadn’t been the same since.)

The Zircons worked together often in the sense that they were continually forced into close proximity to each other by the nature of their jobs and painful holidays with their aging mother… but as far as working together in a more metaphorical sense went, aliens would invade Earth first before the siblings would ever find common ground for longer than a day.

And somehow, aliens were less of a far-stretch.

“I’m looking at all the facts now, and I truly think, if I-I’m allowed to be frank, Mrs. Diamond, that it is in our best interest to settle for this particular case.” Jay’s voice trembled as she carefully addressed the figure at the head of the conference table.

Arranged in a black three piece suit, Yellow Diamond was simply—there was no other word for it—striking, a slightly slouched but otherwise imperial statue cut from marble in her hardback chair. There was always an air about her, an impression, that she was an impenetrable fortress, her tall walls fortified with sharp weaponry and stone.

Her architecture was magnificent, but in its harshness and angularity, all lines and geometrical edges, it always emphasized an implicit message: She was a woman who it would be unwise to cross.

She stared between the sisters impassively, finger interlocked below her sharp chin as she listened, though Jay couldn’t help but notice that the CEO’s attention was divided between them and her phone, which sat dormant on the table, a silent specter.

“That’s your go-to solution, isn’t it?” Gilda scoffed, her arrogance impressively balanced in the haughty tilt of her nose. “Settle. What is this? A petty traffic ticket? We shouldn’t be settling anything! We could have them on the ropes if we just—”

“Gilda!” She interrupted incredulously, splaying her hands forcibly on the table. “Loosen your cravat so you can see the big picture for heaven’s sake! The factory‘s waste has been unlawfully leaking on a protected reservation for twelve years. We can contest that until we’re blue in the face, but no judge on this green earth is going to rule in our favor.”

Her sister opened that insufferable mouth of hers, likely to argue some asinine point that Jay would spend the next thirty minutes trying to meticulously deconstruct, but the familiar tango was harshly interrupted by the ringing of a phone that was neither of theirs.

“Quiet!” Yellow Diamond hissed, fluidly pulling the device up to her ear, and there was a viciousness in her ordinarily well-regimented face that neither lawyer felt particularly equipped to contest.

So they blanched into obedient silence on either side of the tense CEO.

Gilda uncomfortably picked at her portfolio.

“Blue? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

On the other end of the line, the woman who Jay knew to be Yellow Diamond’s wife, seemed to reply. 

Fifteen years was a long time to have known the Diamonds, and during that span—all those days, weeks, and months—Jay understood both very little about them and an incredible lot. 

Fifteen years ago, Pink Diamond had been a precocious ten-year old who had accompanied her mother to work from time to time. She used to play on the elevator, zipping from the lobby to the fortieth floor constantly, as though it was some exciting game called Annoy the Poor Elevator Attendant. Jay had been awkward and clumsy then, a young lawyer still trying to find her footing as the newest addition to one of the most elite legal teams in the entire city, and one of her most vivid memories from that time was the youngest Diamond accidentally bumping into her on said elevator, causing her to spill her scalding coffee all over her favorite portfolio.

The child had apologized profusely and even proffered her own jacket as a napkin because she was sweet like that—if a little impish. Freckles crossed the bridge of her nose like trailing dandelion dust; there was a gap in her mouth where she’d just lost a tooth.

For a couple of years there, Jay became familiarized with the heiress’s occasional presence in the building. She was the shock of pink hair bobbing impatiently in the elevator, and she was the flash of red converses heeling off down the hallway and around the corner. She was the lone bubbly voice in a sea of sober business droning. She was ten, and then she was thirteen, and then she was sixteen, obnoxiously jingling the keys to her new convertible around everywhere, as though just begging someone to ask about them.

She was the rare smile on Yellow Diamond’s unbending mouth—crooked there, stiff.

Almost reluctant.

But undoubtedly there.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The hallways of Diamond Electric felt a little less… vibrant without the spontaneity of those red converses and the climbing octaves of that high, lilting laugh.

Mischievous.

To the last.

As for Blue Diamond, Jay could only claim to have seen her maybe a handful of times in the course of her employ at DE, though only one occasion was stark in the lawyer’s well-ordered recollections.

At the trial where Pink Diamond’s killers were sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, the Zircons’ euphoria at having argued their cased well was immediately tempered as the entire courtroom watched a tragedy unfold before their eyes. There was no applause as Yellow Diamond stood and held her wife in her arms.

There was only silence.

And baited breath.

And a mutual, unspoken, dirty relief that they were not the Diamonds and only passive voyeurs to what was assuredly unspeakable misery.

That night, Jay and Gilda were quite polite to each other as they taxied away from the courthouse.

A mutual, unspoken, dirty truce.

“No, no, I’m, of course I’m not busy,” Yellow said, standing up with an abruptness that startled the Zircons. She was already halfway to the door before at least one of them recovered their wits.

“But, Mrs. Diamond!” Gilda interjected. “The lawsuit. We—”

“We’re done for the night,” Yellow called over her shoulder, a brusqueness in her voice that left no room for argument. “We can reconvene in the morning.” “But—”

The door slammed on Gilda’s final protestation.

A framed picture of the Empire City skyline comically fell from its place on the wall at the force of the exit, landing facedown on the floor with a pathetic ker-clunk.

Jay glanced down at the neatly compiled packet below her—the efforts of at least two weeks worth of joint research.

They had barely made it past page four; there were fifty-two pages total.

“Her head’s just not in the game anymore,” Gilda sniffed, scooping up her own papers with a roughness that wasn’t entirely impersonal. “Hasn’t been in years now.”

“Gilda,” Jay chided sharply, her voice low, but even she knew that whispering was an exercise in futility.

Their boss was long gone.

“Oh, don’t give me that holier than thou nonsense, sister mine. You know it. Everyone in this office—nay!—this building knows it.” She shoved her portfolio back into her briefcase and closed it, harshly palming the brass clasps. “Our stalwart leader has been compromised.”

“She’s still grieving obviously. She’s taking care of her wife…”

Gilda only shook her head, standing up from her own chair. Her impeccable coif—tall and vaguely impossible looking—gleamed beneath the warm overheads. 

“And I’m sympathetic towards her,” she said. “I am. But you cannot run a multibillion dollar business on sentiment.”

It was an effective closing statement to which Jay Zircon had no reasonable rebuttal. 

Her sister swept out of the conference room with a last harrumph of contempt, while she alone remained, the last diner at that long, empty table. She shuffled a few of her papers absentmindedly and glanced out of the yellow-tinted windows as the sky slowly turned over to night, charcoaling.

Sentiment.

This company had no use for it.

6:44PM:

The conversation had lasted maybe ten minutes, two of which were lost to clumsy silence as Yellow Diamond navigated from the conference room to her office around the corner, closing the door behind her with a resolute click.

They spent three minutes more on useless pleasantries because that was just what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

The barely breathed, Hello.

The awkwardly returned, Hi.

The shuffling of their reluctant breaths, all static and white noise over the line, before Yellow ripped the bandage off with all the indelicacy she centered her brutal facade around, exposing the wound raw.

Did you mean it? Are you sure you’re… okay ?

Because the bleak truth was that she wasn’t sure she believed Blue when she said that she was fine. Four years of perpetual mourning had taught her entirely too much about silent, grief stricken nights and very little about belief, hope, and all of those other empty platitudes. Blue Diamond could say that she was fine and leave a suicide note in the wastebasket three hours later. Blue Diamond could promise that she was okay, only to dissolve on a balcony full of sun because she was light five minutes ago… and now—and forevermore—she was not. She could build a cathedral out of reassurances and condemn it to the ground with just the thought, the remembrance, and the overwhelming absence of Pink Diamond, who haunted them both perpetually and always. 

They’d been in the ruins for four years now, and the bottom line was that Yellow Diamond didn’t trust mere words.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t trust Bl—

Pleasantries and silence—that was what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

There was breathing, and there was the swelling darkness just outside the gold colored windows of Diamond Electric.

In and out and in and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And there was a long pause as Blue Diamond collected her thoughts in that quietly precise way of hers; she was always so meticulous in how she used her words, as though they were instruments to be handled with delicate care.

Yes? She replied gently, her voice lilting upwards as though she was asking a question. And no… perhaps both at the same time if those emotions can coexist without contradiction… Yellow, I—

What? Because Yellow had abruptly cut in, unable to stand the tension.

So impatient to the last.

Unfailingly.

The coldness of the office pressed upon her like a vice, its hard edges sinking in her skin. She dug her fingers into the smooth surface of her desk as though to ground herself, but there was nothing to hold on to but the grains. It was always like this when she talked to Blue; the expansive scope of her world narrowed down to her and her alone. Gravity meant nothing; time meant nothing; everything in the world meant nothing.

Except.

And always.

Blue.

I’m sorry, she simply said. 

It was only two words; they landed in the pit of Yellow’s stomach like a blow.

I’ve hurt you—immeasurably—in all these collected years, and I’m sorry for that, Yellow, she continued, her voice soft, for all the immeasurable, collected hurts. I am.

Two weeks ago, Blue Diamond had been lying catatonic in her bed, decomposing.

And now, she was apologizing for four years worth of hurt.

It was inconceivable.

Impossible.

It felt wrong.

Surreal.

Why? Yellow’s voice was strangled in her throat, dry and parched. Why now?

Why not a year ago when Yellow knelt by her bedside and pleaded with her—begged her—to stay goddammit? Why not all those hundreds upon hundred of nights that she had slept in the study on a damn leather couch, keeping one eye on the half-opened door in her study, even in the throes of sleep? Why today, of all days, when the consummate businesswoman was in the middle of yet another crucial meeting she would easily abandon all for the sake of one person?

Why?

The question scratched her chest; it punctured her beating lungs.

Why now?

And why… why was Yellow never enough?

(She had wanted to be enough.)

I visited a boy who is fighting for his life today, came the quiet reply. And it reminded me, quickly, of how fragile this all really is.

She had paused then.

The unspoken name nestled between them; the memory of their daughter wreathed her neck.

Pink used to love coming up to this very office just because she liked spinning around in her mother’s chair. Her shoes would briefly flash against the floor just so she could gain momentum, and then she would spin, spin, spin, her head tilted back in the beginnings of a long laugh.

Yellow glanced at it then, the worn leather shining dully in the light glancing in from the windows. 

It was completely and utterly empty.

I have to go, Blue. Sorry. I stepped out of a meeting.

She had dismissed the meeting.

Oh, I—

We can talk when I get home tonight.

And then she had clicked the phone off unceremoniously and shoved it across the desk as though it offended.

Ten minutes.

For the last twenty, Yellow Diamond had been sitting in the darkness of her office in that damn leather chair, nursing a glass of scotch between her trembling hands. She downed one smooth shot and then another; she drank and she drank until the expensive decanter was all gone, and the after notes of vanilla and barley and peat smoke burned her aching mouth. She drank and she drank, rummaging through her liqueur cabinet with a kind of desperation that made her feel less like a human and more like a rabid dog, hunting for just a drop of water.

Anything to take off the edge.

She drank until all the memories went away, until four years worth of them were walled off by the dulling buzz of Lagavulin.

And when a single tear crept down the hardened architecture of her face, collecting pitifully on the point of her sharp shin, she was so damn drunk, that she didn’t even know what she was crying about anymore.

Why?

Why now?

And why was she not enough?

She had wanted to be enough.

The beginnings of stars rose from the fire of the sky, and Yellow Diamond watched them as they crashed and burned.

7:01PM:

See, the trouble started when the vending machine near their hotel room stopped working. 

Nose wrinkling, stomach rumbling for the want of a snack that would tide her over until Greg got back with pizza, Amethyst tried shaking it, kicking it, and even pleading with the stupid thing all for the sake of a Twinkie she knew probably wouldn’t even taste that good.

But to no avail.

The Twinkie gods hated her apparently.

And so, with a sigh that sounded a hell of a lot more like a groan, she punched the refund button and got her dollar twenty five back in quarters before deciding to try the vending machine in the hospital lobby, moving along the smooth, carpeted floor with new purpose. The rubber sole of her left boot flapped noisily as she walked, having come loose a few weeks ago; she’d been meaning to get it repaired, but between work and Steven, time had been less of a quantity that she possessed, so much as it was something that she chased after.

Every second was a gift, and every minute was a fucking lottery.

There was an elevator ride down and accompanying elevator music, jingling and jangling rhythmically to the beat of her antsy nerves. And there was a text from Vidalia asking how Steven was doing, which she didn’t know how to answer, so she just didn’t reply. (V would get it better than most. Her hubs was a quiet man, so she knew the language of silence entirely too well, whereas Amethyst was still getting the hang of it. Silence was a stalker she had spent half of her life trying to avoid.)

And finally, there was the elevator prying itself open into an atrium that was darkening with the gathering night. Only a few visitors remained, scattered in various hardback chairs and wearing the same tired, careworn faces.

Amethyst didn’t doubt that she looked the same to them.

Because these were faces, sure enough, of loving someone and being afraid to lose them. There was a depletion to the act, a necessary consumption, that united them together beneath the flat roof of the Empire City Regional Medical Center.

They were exhausted—all of them.

So damn weary.

Amethyst had already slumped halfway to the vending machine when she saw her.

One of those same tired, careworn faces.

But a very particular tired, careworn face at the same time.

Blue Diamond, looking incredibly uncomfortable in the chair upon which she sat, her metal cane gleaming by her side.

Amethyst flicked her phone upwards so that the home screen briefly flashed on—it was 7:07. Hella late, and yet, the old lady was still here, looking for all the world like someone had killed her cat or something equally as egregious. Her plump lips were all twisted in a quiet, gnawing sort of frown as she played a little with her long hands on her lap.

Her eyes stared at the ground, but Amethyst could tell—the woman wasn’t really seeing it.

And there was something so singularly sad about this image.

Vulnerable.

That made Amethyst push her Twinkie quest to the back of her mind. 

Shoving her curled fists into the pockets of her joggers, Amethyst took one step and then another across the tiled floor until she was standing right in front of the puzzle of Blue Diamond, the multibillionaire who had worn a bathrobe to a cemetery.

And she knew it was insensitive of her to think that way. Regardless of the woman’s faults, numerous though Amethyst assumed they were, she hadn’t asked for her griefs to be handed to her on a silver platter. 

She hadn’t asked to be undone.

To be fair, though, no one ever did.

That was just the dice of life, rolled across a slanting table.

Snake eyes.

Sorry.

Better luck next time.

“Anyone sittin’ here?” She asked gruffly, jerking her thumb towards the empty chair on Blue Diamond’s left.

Startled from her solemn reverie, Blue looked up then, mouth parting slightly in a soft ‘o’ of surprise as recognition pinched her silvery brow. She shifted in her seat, hunched shoulders straightening with an understated kind of elegance that Amethyst had come to closely associate with Pearl. 

This wasn’t an especially welcome analogy, though. After all, while she’d gotten used to Pearl’s various quirks by now, for a long time there—years even—she’d always felt… condescended by her in a way.

Patronized.

Small.

That feeling took a long ass while to go away with a person whom she considered to be one of her closest friends; how much longer would the sensation last with a total effing stranger, especially the very one she was, like, supposed to hate just on mere principle?

Amethyst ran a habitual hand through her hair in the awkwardness of it all and shifted her weight from one shoe to the other, rocking back and forth. The sole of the left one went flap, flap, flap.

“You’re… one of Steven’s guardians, yes?”

“Yup, one of many.” And then, because she knew that probably didn’t clarify matters, brusquely added, “Amethyst. I was the one who brought him to your suite the other day. Can I sit?”

She once again gestured pointedly to the chair, raising a lavender brow in such a way that more or less communicated, Jeez, woman, get it together.

“Oh, yes! My apologies,” came the appropriately abashed reply. “Please. Be my guest.”

And so, with a little more force than was necessary, Amethyst threw herself into the empty seat, ass already chafing against its hard bottom, the tips of her boots just barely scraping the clinically white floor. 

She could feel Blue Diamond’s tallness next to her more than she dared to look at it for herself; her presence was overwhelming as it was without having to look at her dead on—the shadows turning circles beneath her huge eyes, the parentheses around her quivering mouth, and that air of misery that the twenty-nine year old knew well enough without needing to observe it in a perfect stranger. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she could see that the woman had gone back to staring at her wrinkled hands, templing them delicately on the blue fabric of her lap.

“My valet is coming to pick me up,” she offered without prompting, “but I believe traffic is delaying her.”

“S’always cray cray around this time of night,” Amethyst returned knowledgeably. She couldn’t claim to like Empire City, but after a few months of driving up here so often, she supposed she at least couldn’t refute that she knew it. “Lotsa idiots out n about.”

“Reckless, are they not?”

“The absolute wooooorst.”

And both of their mouths briefly quirked at exactly the same time before silence fell between them again, clumsy and awkward, like an entity still growing into its feet.

They were talking about traffic.

Neither of them really wanted to talk about traffic.

Amethyst broke the stillness first, studiously continuing to not look at her companion. Instead, she drew her leg upwards into her chair, so she could pick at her boot some more.

Flap, flap, flap.

“So you saw him, huh?”

It wasn’t necessary to evoke his name; after all, she was pretty sure that the image of him laying in that hospital bed, all swarming with tubes, haunted the both of them even now, invading the sanctity of their minds and eyes.

Flap, flap, flap.

She was going to tear her shoe to shreds if she kept it up.

(She kept it up.)

“I saw him, yes,” Blue agreed quietly, her fingers stilling in their cathedral position. One thumb was balanced carefully atop of the other, bricks without mortar, construction without foundation. “I... wasn't ready… he was so small... and I almost looked away... I'm ashamed to even admit it."

The confession was broken into tiny fragments, each splinter slow and painful in the rolling of her accent.

Amethyst couldn’t help herself then—restraint had never been the name by which she was known. 

She was blunt.

She parried back, “You still could, y’know. You don’t have to be here for this.”

You don’t have to put yourself through this if you can help it.

(We can’t help it.)

“Not your circus, not your monkeys, and all that jazz.”

And maybe that was the crux of it, the beating heart behind the entanglement of her reluctance when it came to the wealthy woman sitting next to her. The Crystal Gem couldn’t understand why someone, anyone, would willingly partake in this exhibition when they had every blessed out in the world. Blue Diamond didn’t have to care for Steven. She didn’t have to be here. She could go back to the fiftieth floor of her penthouse suite and wall herself away from one care of this world more. Just from her looks alone, Amethyst could tell that she couldn’t afford another loss, and yet, she could absolutely afford to get away from the possibility of another loss if she just, well, left.

If she hurried.

Before the boy who was kind enough to extend flowers to random ladies in the cemetery could worm his way into a heart that had already had its reckoning.

But—and Amethyst was just now realizing this with the force of a collision—maybe that was the crux of it, too.

That simple goodness of a proffered hand had been enough.

It had changed a life.

Maybe, quite possibly, it had saved one.

“I… just got off the phone with my wife,” Blue Diamond whispered, “and she asked a singular question to which I couldn’t provide the answer. Why? Such a simple beast, and yet a devastatingly complex one.”

Why Rose all those many years ago?

Why Steven now? Why couldn’t they find him a damn kidney?

Why couldn’t life give them one damn break?

Why?

The familiarity of the question rose like a lump in Amethyst’s throat.

“I’ve looked away from her—from everything, really—for so many years, even before my daughter…” The woman trailed away, her voice hitching. It took her a few seconds to regroup. She placed a steadying hand on her chest. “… and now, for reasons I cannot necessarily explain myself… I don’t want to anymore. Maybe, Yellow, it is because a child in a cemetery told me that it was quite possible to still feel the pain of my loss and still live? Maybe, Yellow, it is because I sat upon a balcony with him and envied the hunger he had for life, and wondered, for the first time in years, if it was still possible to obtain a modicum of it for myself? Maybe, Yellow, I saw him in a hospital bed today—sick—and it reminded me of a truth that I’d long forgotten.”

Amethyst chanced a peek at Blue Diamond then, stole it ashamedly, as though she was a child reaching a hand into the cookie jar.

The dim incandescence of the overheads crowned her silvery head in soft, white light as she glanced upwards, her half-moon gaze angled to a spot that the Crystal Gem couldn’t quite see.

She almost looked beautiful—a portrait in melancholy, all feathery brushstrokes.

Steven would have thought so anyway.

Hell, he was the type of person who would have even said it.

“And what that’d be?” She asked.

What was the answer to that devastatingly simple, that horribly complex question, Why?

If there was even an answer at all.

What truth had a woman as seemingly erudite as Blue Diamond so guiltily forgotten?

Blue looked down then, a strand of wavy hair falling between her eyes. It curled a little at the end.

“Why?” She murmured, her strained voice barely above a whisper. Amethyst had to lean in just to catch what she said next. “Because I love you, Yellow—so much. That is why.”

The rawness of the proclamation, the sincerity of it, seared the both of them, landing cleanly between them like the precise swing of an axe. It was always such a vulnerable gamble to admit to love, and perhaps it was even revolutionary to proffer it as the solution to why.

Why am I trying?

Why am I still here?

Why can’t I look away, Steven?

Because I love you—so much. That is it.

That is all.

And that is why.

It was a simple phrase, and it was a profound one. It was scarcely said; in Blue Diamond’s case, it was forgotten.

“You should tell that to her,” Amethyst suddenly said, and just for a moment there, it didn’t matter that the person in question was the dread Yellow Diamond, her mortal enemy or whatever.

Just for a moment, Yellow Diamond was merely a person who was loved by another.

“Exactly like that,” she pressed before glancing away, her bangs falling across her eyes. She played with her busted shoe again as heat clambered up her face—flap, flap, flap. It was surreal to be sitting here, giving advice to a woman so different from her and so alien. It was only chance that they were both sitting here—here, of all places—beneath the roof of this hospital.

Tired and careworn.

Alike but not especially.

Perfect strangers.

Connected simply by a flower and a boy.

Now it was Blue Diamond’s turn to stare; her tall, sickle-shaped eyes were drawn to the noise of flap, flap, flap, which made Amethyst self-conscious about the fact that the woman was likely wearing a designer dress.

Damn these rich people.

“I fear it may be too late. I’ve done my damage.”

“Maybe,” Amethyst shrugged. It was all she could do. “But ya won’t know until you’ve tried.”

They were both silent again. Outside the glass windows, the world had taken on the dull purple of night, pulling it over its shoulders like a cozy, star-spangled nightgown.

“Thank you… Amethyst.” 

Blue Diamond offered her a parenthetical smile of an olive branch of a truce; it was a reluctant little gesture, still stiff and foreign on the mouth of someone who looked like she hadn’t smiled in years.

“Nah, don’t mention it, dude," she shrugged.

It was not forgiveness, nor was it absolution.

But it was a tiny concession.

It was a tired half-smile pulling at her lips.

“I needed the reminder, too.”

7:39PM:

Traffic in Empire City was always a risky gamble of a business, especially at night when the only rule of the six lane seemed to be, “Everything goes, and good luck with the going, buddy, old pal, my friend.”

Having spent years driving up here with Rose for various doctor appointments and then relearning the routine all over again with Steven these past few months, Greg liked to fancy that he could navigate the beast as well as any boardie from a small beach town could ever claim to. But even still, all the ample driving experience in the world was no match for what a car wreck could do to the flow of vehicles streaming down the neon lit highway. 

Somewhere a little up above his van, there was a cacophony of sirens—red and blue and shrill and insistent. In the passenger seat, the pizzas he’d picked up nearly an hour ago were cooling, the rich, greasy smell of them sidling up to his shoulder temptingly. He thought about taking a bite because it was late and he was hungry, but ultimately decided against it.

Amethyst would never let him hear the end of it.

So he thought about the accident up ahead and hoped that no one had been seriously injured. (He had his doubts, though. There were so many sirens, wailing.) His van slowly crept forward as the cars ahead were painstakingly navigated around the ruins. People honked up and down the endless line because patience wasn’t Empire City’s strong suit; the big city, the golden apple, didn’t wait for anyone, least of all everyone, and sometimes, it felt like everyone in the world lived here, a population made of skyscrapers and cars and brilliant lights.

But thinking about the wreck didn’t entertain him for very long—his apologies to those affected—so he thought about the soulful tunes crooning through his staticky radio. Some R&B band from the eighties whose name just barely escaped him. They sung about love and loss and red Corvettes that shined beneath the hot, sticky sun. Greg’s thumbs slapped the wheel rhythmically to the melody, picking out the notes with an easiness that might have made old Marty proud on a good day.

But then the music suddenly shuddered off, the jockey apologizing for the inconvenience. 

They’d try to get the station back up shortly.

The silence was unbearable.

So he popped in the closest CD, thinking it was his relaxing music compilation.

But nope.

It was death metal, the sudden explosion of the heavy bass and snare drums nearly sending his car veering into the next lane over as his hands jerked on the wheel.

“Wrong one!” He panted, chest heaving with feral panic. “Stop! Eject!”

And with a slap harder than intended, he punched the panel of buttons at random, the noise screeching to a stop, the CD comically popping out like toast from a toaster.

Ding.

And silence filled all the empty spaces once again.

In the silence, Greg had no choice but to think of Steven.

He took great gulps of air, his shoulders still shaking from the reverberations of the abruptly snuffed music, and could find no more distractions.

This was the end of the road on an endless road of snailing cars.

His hands clenched painfully around the wheel, the images revving across his mind’s eye—unbidden, quick, ugly, and unwanted.

His son.

His only son.

Laying in that hospital bed.

Dying.

Was this all life had to offer? He wondered to himself, and in the place of noise, there was emotion; there was sadness and horror and anger roaring up the column of his throat.

Rising.

Leaking.

Dripping.

Down his ruddy cheeks and into his beard.

Down his throat.

Draining.

Loving people who were gonna always leave him in the end? Finding home only for it to immediately forsake him? Maybe old Andy had had it right, always up there in that great, blue oasis of sky—never touching the ground long enough for people to find him and love him and hurt him.

Maybe there was something to the idea of giving up.

But no. “Stop that,” Greg scolded himself harshly. “Stop.”

He’d spent his entire teen years running away from his folks and all their shiny expectations, so he was done running away. He had told himself that the moment he kicked Marty outta his van and turned it back around to Beach City and its sprawling sands—to the little oceanside town and the big woman with pink hair.

Right then and there, he’d been ready to accept the consequences of his actions.

The starchild had grown into a man.

And that meant staying the course, no looking back or skywards, no regrets or what-could-have-beens.

For Steven Universe, he would stay until the end… no matter what that end happened to be.

That was responsibility.

And that, above all, was love.

Love was solidity, and it was thereness, and it was warmth.

It was patience, and it was risk that never quite guaranteed reward.

Love was staying.

Even when things got tough, and maybe especially when they did.

(Stay, he'd pleaded with Rose when Dr. Howard turned the ventilator off. He had held her hand. He didn't want her to be alone.)

(Please, he begged as the lines that measured the beating of her heart began to falter and fade away.)

His bushy brow furrowed in quiet sympathy as he finally maneuvered around the scene of the accident, going slowly as a traffic officer signaled him on with a hand and a whistle. He saw the carnage out of the corner of his eye, all twisted metal and climbing smoke. What looked like a Nissan had plowed right into the back of a fancy lookin’ black town car, not unlike the one which had brought Blue Diamond to the hospital earlier…

His heart lurched.

But then he thought about it.

He considered.

Nah.

Couldn’t be her.

From what he understood, her high rise was somewhere past the hospital.

8:54PM:

“Pearl, go home before I tell Gunga on you,” Kiki teased, but all the same, there was concern in her voice, a hint of seriousness that didn’t quite mark her playful threat as simply playful. It flashed in the depths of her warm, brown eyes. And it brushed against Pearl’s shoulder with a gentleness she had come to expect from the younger Pizza sister.

The two of them were both working behind the bar of Fish Stew Cuisine tonight, the restaurant Kiki’s father and grandmother owned. It used to be just a casual place for locals—then called Fish Stew Pizza—but with time, effort, and a considerable amount of increased tourism when vacationers realized that there was a lovely beach here to visit and trash, it had expanded into one of Beach City’s finest restaurants.

It was a slow night, though, rain coming down in heavy sheets outside the tall, glass windows.

At this late hour, only a few diners remained, casually enjoying their dinners to the rhythmic tattoo of the storm—mostly regulars, people who understood that through rain, hail, sleet, or snow, Fish Stew would always be here for patient guests, arms open wide and plates steaming with good food. The amber light strewn from the dusky lamps made the place feel warm, as though it was full of quiet fire, flickering in so many overhanging hearths.

Pearl swiped persistently at a stain on the glass she was cleaning.

She’d been working on it for five minutes now in the absence of a new customer to tend to.

“I can’t just leave,” she returned exasperatedly, still scrubbing away at the mark. She was starting to think that it was yet another lost cause.

(She seemed to have a penchant for those lately.)

“I promised to work until closing.”

And I have to.

There are bills to pay and possible surgeries to fund.

But she didn’t say this part aloud; she didn’t want to put that weight on a seventeen-year old who meant well.

“Girl, closing isn’t ’til eleven, and you’ve been here since two,” Jenny Pizza laughed, glancing up from her phone long enough to do so. She was Kiki’s older sister and a bit of a rebel to the boot. Though she was technically on the clock, too, she had been sitting on the other side of the bar for the past half hour now, sending something she called “snaps” to her friends. These “snaps” often involved her making funny faces at her camera, ninety percent of these compelling her to poke her lips out. “Go home, and get some shut eye. Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Kiki parroted, snatching the glass from out of Pearl’s hands when she wasn’t looking.

With a certain primness, she chunked it into the nearest recycling bin as the bell on the door pealed, signaling an incoming customer.

“Kiki!”

“The new ones are coming in next week anyway,” the girl only replied with a shrug of mischievous shoulder. “Now, Pearl, go the eff home. We got this. Right, Jenny?”

“Mhm.” Jenny made a vague noise of agreement without looking up again. “Yeah, you’ve got this, Kiki. Get it.”

“Well,” Kiki only rolled her eyes, “I’ve got this anyway.”

Two massive arms, both scarred and tattooed, slammed down on the countertop then, and Pearl’s mouth immediately twitched into a smile to see that it was none other than Bismuth, a local construction worker for the city and a fellow Crystal Gem. Her spectacularly colorful dreads were thrown upwards into a haphazard ponytail, and her mouth was wide with one of those trademark Bismuth smiles, all lopsided, shining with white teeth.

“Pearl,” she scolded in that wry way of hers, “are you givin’ these pretty ladies trouble again?”

“Yesssssss,” Kiki replied, already starting on the woman’s usual order. (Jerk chicken and eggs.) “Homegirl won’t go home even though she’s been here all day. Just look at her.” The teenager gestured vaguely at Pearl’s body. “She looks dead on her feet.”

“You’re being incredibly rude tonight, you know,” Pearl huffed, unable to resist the urge to glance down. There was an unidentifiable stain on the collar of her shirt. 

She hated unidentifiable stains on the collars of her shirts.

“It’s for your own good,” she replied sagely, turning away as her saucepan began to sizzle on the stove. With Jenny also occupied, Pearl was left to the mercy of Bismuth, who’d always had a way of seeing through her, down to her deepest core. 

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend. With a self-assuredness that Pearl had always lacked and a gentleness that she had always loved, her old companion reached across the bar and placed a calloused palm atop of the pale ridges of Pearl’s knuckles, covering them completely.

“C’mere, sugar,” she said softly, “and tell me all about it.”

“It’s late,” Pearl whispered automatically, glancing away. She always had some excuse or another. “And you’ve been working. You must be tired.”

“Hell,” Bismuth snorted as Kiki pushed a soda towards her, “if I’m tired, then you must be exhausted. The kid’s right. You look it.”

“The kid’s always right,” Kiki chimed in knowingly before moving away again.

And so, as the breath of rain continued to hiss on the roof, Pearl drew up a stool and sat across the bar from Bismuth, her hand warm beneath the other’s surprisingly gentle touch.

And they talked.

Softly.

Pearl told her everything. 

She told her about the cemetery and Steven and the tiny hibiscus flower that passed from his hand to that of Blue Diamond’s, watching as Bismuth’s expressive face twisted in the same sort of horror and disgust that she herself had been grappling with ever since the bathrobed woman had somehow made her way into the entanglement of their lives. And Pearl told her about the last trip to Empire City, how Steven had almost needed a blood transfusion, and how that almost had become their reality when he’d collapsed in the beach house, hitting those wooden slats with a thunk that still echoed in the hollows of her head. 

“I yelled at Amethyst,” she whispered, horrified, trying to withdraw her hand from beneath Bismuth’s.

Bismuth’s grip only tightened.

“I said some horrible things.”

“We all say horrible things,” the woman only replied, looking down, ever so subtly glancing away. Fifteen years ago, she and Rose had had a falling out over how to protest Diamond Electric. They hadn’t made up before she died. “The fixin’ part is what matters.”

And so Pearl, swallowing hard in acceptance of this lived-through truth, went on and on until her voice was scratchy from the strain of it. She told Bismuth about how small Steven was in the hospital bed and how sickly. She told her, fingernails digging into the grains of the bar, about how Priyanka Maheswaran, who always had a solution, didn’t really have an answer. She told her about the IVs and the wires and the blood transfusions and the possibility of a feeding tube.

And she told her, without saying a word, that she was scared.

Admissions did not come easily to the woman, but they were written across the physiognomy of her entire body anyway.

The desperation leaked from her pale eyes.

And all the sleepless nights lined her pointed face.

And there was a stiffness in the way she held herself, so harshly, with studied discipline.

But by definition, discipline was necessarily repression, and repress, repress, repress was the motto and model by which Pearl lived her life. It was the lone vanguard which kept her from shattering to pieces on the floor—just another mess for Kiki to sweep up with the rest of the clutter.

It was her last defense against total dissolution.

When she had nothing, at least she could put a smile on her face and pretend otherwise.

“So it’s been a long week,” she smiled wearily at the end of this.

She smiled because the alternative was to fall apart.

"To say the least.”

But, again, that was the thing about Bismuth.

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend. 

With that familiar self-assuredness, her old companion rose from her seat and walked around to the other side of the bar.

“Bismuth, wait, I—”

And then, without hesitating, she crushed Pearl into her strong arms.

The engineer smelled faintly of oil and flavored tobacco.

Peppermint.

Crisp and sharp.

“To say the least,” she only agreed as Pearl’s lower lip began to tremble.

Her arms were limp, useless, by her sides, hanging over the edges of the stool.

“I’m fine,” she tried. The word fell flat on her tongue. “Really.”

“I don't doubt that you are. I never would. But you don’t have to be, hon,” Bismuth replied softly, her breath kindling warm against her ear. “You work so hard… and you care so much… that it ain’t a crime to need some tender love n care, too. It ain't weakness to be kind to yourself, Pearl."

Pearl was frozen, statuesque, even as the world somehow continued to spin around her. Diners chatted, rain fell, and the eggs sizzled in their frying pan. Everything and everyone else had their place in this world.

She wasn’t sure where that left her and all the griefs she so tightly wrapped herself around—scars and still-bleeding wounds.

“How can I break,” she asked, her voice tight, “knowing he’s lying in that hospital bed? What right do I have to fall to pieces when what he’s fighting is a hundred times worse?”

Somehow, Bismuth had an answer to this, too; she seemed to always have an answer.

She rubbed gentle circles into Pearl’s back.

She didn't let go.

“Pain isn’t a competition, Pearl,” she admonished. “When you’re hurting, you’re hurting.”

There was a matter-of-factness to this statement, a sense of finality, and perhaps that was what did it in the end; the raw truth of it confronted her, and it scalded her, and it forced her to confess.

Pearl shattered, and Bismuth was there to scoop up all the pretty, broken pieces.

“It hurts all over,” she admitted as the tears wrenched themselves loose from her eyes.

“I know, sugar."

Outside the restaurant, the rain continued to beat its relentless dirge into the Boardwalk, the sky falling in shards and unholy music, all needle sharp notes.

If the crescendo screamed, it absolutely roared.

10:03PM:

Outside the window of Room 11037, night wrapped its velvety arms around a sky shivering with stars, and Garnet, attentive of every wire and tube, wrapped her warm arms around Steven as they laid in his hospital bed together, watching a late night re-run of Crying Breakfast Friends. This was the episode where Pear betrayed the stoic Spoon’s trust, and all the assorted breakfast people cried about it for a good seven minutes of the show’s eleven minute runtime.

For some odd reason, the animation on Spoon’s tears was exceptionally well done, the liquid fluidly running down the curvature of their face as they wailed incoherently.

“Wahhhhhhhhhh.”

(Not for the first time, Garnet absently wondered who had been paid to write this.)

Beneath her, Steven sniffed noisily, bringing up the less-encumbered of his hands to swipe tentatively at his nose; it was an awkward movement with the oxygen cannulas in the way.

“You’ve seen this one before,” Garnet teased softly, her voice landing somewhere in his dark hair. “Twice that I know of. It can’t be that sad anymore.”

She waited for a laugh and a witty retort—for a remarkably insightful analysis into why it was okay to cry over crying breakfast utensils—but one wasn’t forthcoming, even though the child’s shoulders were conspicuously shaking.

She looked down at him then, catching a sliver of his face in the light wash of the television; tears streamed silently from his eyes and down the sunken hollows of his face, down into the collar of his gown, down past the spiral of wires.

“Steven.” Garnet propped herself up with an abruptness that was almost violent, though when she cupped his face between her long fingers, her touch was exceedingly gentle. “What’s wrong?”

But Steven shook his head, burying it into the front of her sweatshirt as a low whine escaped past his anemic lips.

His chubby fingers twisted into the fabric next to her stomach.

“Steven!” Panic slipped up the rungs of her voice. 

She looked around wildly her for the call button on the railing, but they were surrounded by so many tubes and blankets.

And it was dark.

And Steven was crying.

“Garnet,” he finally moaned, “my back hurts.”

It was a common symptom with his disease. Because the kidneys were located right below the ribcage, his upper back often spasmed when they were being particularly bothersome.

At home, they would give him medicine and press a heating pad to his spine, hoping against both hell and hope that the warmth would sooth the worst of the pain.

Here in the hospital, they could give him morphine.

They could even sedate him.

Make the pain go away for a few hours if that was mercy.

(Once, after a particularly bad attack that’d almost brought them to the hospital, Steven had described the pain like being stung by a jellyfish over and over again, as though its tentacles were wrapped around his torso, wringing him out all over.)

“I have to get a nurse,” she said automatically, her throat dry. He clung to her so tightly that she didn’t dare move an inch. On the TV, Spoon was still crying, their keening overwrought next to Steven, who cried so quietly these days that it was almost like he hated for anyone to hear.

“They’ll drug me?” He asked astutely, the sound muffled in her shirt.

“Yes.”

“It’d make me sleep.”

“Maybe... yes.” Garnet couldn’t see where he was going with this until his fingers tightened just a fraction more where they gripped her. 

Her lips parted.

And there was silence.

And there was crying.

And there was understanding most of all. It scorched Garnet and simply ruined her.

“You don’t want to go to sleep.” 

It was a statement, hoarsely dragged from her mouth.

She received a minimal head shake as her answer.

“You’re scared.”

And somehow, she knew the veracity of her words before he nodded his assent into her chest.

Steven was scared to fall asleep—afraid, maybe even terrified, that he wouldn’t wake up. The horror of it, the awfulness and the unfairness, and the cruelty of it rose up in Garnet’s chest like a tsunami, a fire, a hurricane, a storm.

Yet, she remained immobile.

She didn’t move.

What could she even say to that?

What was she supposed to say?

Words were insufficient.

(She couldn’t even reassure herself.)

The small TV screen suddenly faded to black as Crying Breakfast Friends ended, and the credits rolled, the show’s elegiac theme song playing softly in the background, all piano notes and somber violin strings.

It was a little easier, at least, when she couldn’t see his face.

“I’m scared, too,” she admitted.

It was only three words, but they exacted her, and they excavated her; heat clambered up her cheeks, settling somewhere behind her burning eyes.

Steven’s shoulders briefly stilled, though all the machines keeping him alive continued to whir on.

“Y-you are?”

“All the time.” Scared to touch him, scared to even look at him. Scared that one day, she would wake up and he would be gone, a shell finally reclaimed by its shore. Scared to leave this hospital room lest she miss a single moment, and scared to stay if that meant watching him go. Scared that they wouldn’t find him a kidney in time, and scared that if they did, they couldn’t afford it.

Garnet was a wreck, barely holding together.

She was Garnet.

She had to hold together anyway.

“And sometimes, Steven,” she whispered, hugging him to her chest as much as the tubing would allow, “that is what love is—being scared and moving forward anyway.”

Into the darkness, hand in hand.

Without the promise of safe return.

Her mothers had done it.

Rose Quartz had done it.

And the footprints they had left behind were big to fill, but Garnet didn’t have to fill them; she just had to follow their lead.

Steven was quiet for a couple more heartbeats still before he slowly withdrew his head from her chest to look up at her; he didn’t quite let go of her shirt; he took ragged, rasping breaths, his shoulders heaving to the rhythmic whirring of his heart monitor.

“You can call the nurse now.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

It was all she could manage.

“And, Garnet?”

“Yes, Steven?”

“I love you.”

10:45PM:

Cooling down after a long day of work was always struggle for Priyanka, whose mind was such that it was perpetually working ahead to the next day of work—all the patients she had to do rounds upon, all the charts she had to fill out, and all the procedures she had to meticulously prep for, spending as much time in the hospital’s library as she did the operating room. 

If the table of her head wasn’t perpetually well-set, her thoughts surgically arranged on a porcelain plate, scalpels placed in descending order by size on the adjacent napkin, then the doctor felt unmoored from the trait which made her feel fundamentally herself.

Her precision—unerring, diligent, and unpretentious.

She checked and double-checked and was a better nephrologist for it. By the nature of the temperamental organ she was dealing with, her patient mortality rate was high, but no one, by the nature of her methodology, could say that it was because of human error.

She checked and double-checked, trying to quantify every conceivable possibility before they could make themselves known in the real world, and when she neglected to deconstruct a hypothetical, which was a rarity in and of itself, she would chastise herself for it both before and better than anyone else ever could.

Priyanka Maheswaran was a study in precision, never shirking away from the reward that often laid at the end of hard labor.

But what no one had ever told her was that a side effect of being precise was being so damn tired.

All the time.

She struggled to cool down, and she was exhausted. She desperately wanted to sleep, but her mind whirred and whirled and calculated and thought. The dichotomous interplay of these qualities led to her sipping hot tea in bed with a pinched expression on her face as her husband stretched out next to her, reading his tattered copy of Crime and Punishment and sometimes laughing aloud when a line struck him as funny.

“Ha,” he snorted after awhile of this before replacing his bookmark (an old grocery store receipt) in his new spot and closing the heavy tome. “I love Dostoevsky.”

Lips pressed to the rim of her nearly empty mug, Priyanka arched a sharp brow at him, smiling wryly.

Her husband was a dork.

“Should I be jealous, dear?”

“Naturally,” Doug returned, reaching over to place the book on his nightstand before turning back towards her. “Dostoevsky has it all. A great grasp on existentialism and a beard for days. He could tone it down on the heavy moralism, though.”

“That’s what you said about Tolstoy,” she reminded him with a tilt of her head. “Good beard, too much sermonizing.”

“It’s a running theme,” her husband admitted sadly, and then, catching each other’s eye, the two Maheswarans suddenly laughed, the sounds loud in the otherwise quiet room.

It was moments like these, after nearly seventeen years together, that kept them going strong. They loved each other, and they liked each other, and they especially liked to make each other laugh.

Even if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

And maybe especially if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

“We’re going to wake our daughter up,” Priyanka finally said, setting her mug down on her own nightstand. In the lamplight, the dark ceramic gleamed. Her phone, sitting next to it, showed that she had a new message from one of the surgical interns she was training. 

She’d open it in a minute.

Knowing the group of fools she’d gotten this year, whoever it was had probably stabbed themselves with a syringe.

(Again.)

“It’s never too early for Connie to have an opinion on old Russian men,” Doug chuckled, but he, too, was settling down as the heaviness of night began to sweep across them both.

He sighed fondly and took her hand then, intertwining their fingers on top of the blankets.

Priyanka wasn’t much of a touchy-feely person, but her husband absolutely was, and she knew, from all the coagulated years of having been married to him, that this simple gesture was about being close to her, about reacquainting himself to her presence.

So she didn’t let go.

Instead, she squeezed once, resting her head against the backboard of their bed and closing her eyes for the first time in what felt like days. The darkness was nice and inviting, blanketing her head like a cozy throw.

It was just all the thoughts, buzzing like bees at the velvety, black edges, that made it so unbearable.

Patients, charts, and procedures.

And Steven Universe most of all.

She worried for him constantly now that he was in the hospital; she carried his sunken face with her everywhere that she went; he made her half-sick.

He forced her to become undone.

Caring.

It did something to her.

“You look tired, honey,” Doug said softly. “Shall we put a nightcap on the evening?”

Priyanka opened her eyes again and nodded ever so briskly. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and let out a small, exacting sigh.

“I think that’d be in order,” she agreed, and it was a sign of her exhaustion that she acquiesced so easily. Usually, he had to plead with her to close down shop for the night.

These weren’t usual times.

Without letting go of her hand, her husband twisted away and turned the latch of his lamp with a click, thrusting half of the room into darkness. 

And she was about to do the same when the rectangular light of her phone caught her attention again.

Instead of just one message from her intern—a perky blonde named Dr. Stephens—now she had eight of them in total and a missed call. 

The doctor always put her phone on silent when she drank her nightly tea so she didn’t have to be a doctor for fifteen minutes.

She could simply be Priyanka.

Her stomach clenched.

An influx of messages was never a good thing; her mind raced ahead of her; it anticipated the worst.

“Hon?” 

Doug’s questioning concern pressed against her side, and Priyanka found herself clenching his hand all the tighter as she used her free one to pick up the phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe and clicking the message app with a suddenness that was brutal.

Monday, 10:57PM:

Dr. Stephens: DR. MAHESWARAN!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: UNOS JUST CALLED.

Dr. Stephens: WE HAVE A KIDNEY FOR STEVEN UNIVERSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: Car crash on the lower East Side. The donor is brain dead, but all their other organs are viable.

Dr. Stephens: And they’re a match for Steven.

Dr. Stephens: Seriously. I’ve checked and double-checked. 

Dr. Stephens: This is our person.

Dr. Stephens: The surgeon at Empire Gen’s gonna perform the harvest procedure tomorrow morning at 10AM, and I told them you’d be there. 

In the half-darkness of her room, Priyanka held that phone aloft like it was priceless gold and let out a breath she had been holding for a very long time. Her shoulders heaved with the sensation of it, the feeling, the emotion.

Of goddamn relief.

Warm, sweeping, glorious relief.

A kidney.

Steven Universe was getting a kidney.