#why did I so immediately make so many concessions to you rather than just speak my actual thoughts?

[insanechayne]

~ ~ ~

[the-archxr]

Nobody Puts Harrington in a Corner

steve harrington x reader

Summary: What do you do when you want to go see a romance movie but have no one to take you? You haul along your best friend and have an impromptu dance lesson after, of course.

A/N: y’all I fucking love Dirty Dancing so much, it’s not even funny. This fic is honestly just self-indulgent, so enjoy??? Even if you don’t like Dirty Dancing.

Song Inspo: (I’ve Had) Time of My Life - Jennifer Warnes and Bill Medley, Hungry Eyes - Eric Carmen

•••••

“I have a business proposition for you.”

The words come out rushed, ragged and breathless. A strange mix that Steve isn’t particularly familiar with when it’s coming from you. His eyes trail up to your hunched figure, shocked at what he sees.

Your face is a blotchy red, with blown cheeks, and a heaving chest. With complete disregard of your previous statement he speaks up. “Did you run here?”

You shrug, and wipe at your forehead. “Yeah, but that’s besides the point.” Straightening your back, you almost square up Steve as a way of proving your point.

He leans his hip against the countertop with his arms crossed and hair falling haphazardly in his face. “I need to ask you something, Steve. And before you say no, just remember that I’m literally you’re most favourite person on the face of this planet who has saved your ass more times than I can count.”

“Okay..?” He pushes himself off the counter before straightening out the ugly green vest he has to wear. “What is it?”

You smile wildly but force yourself to keep some composure as to not draw Keith’s attention, who has definitely kicked you out of the store before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

“So...there’s this new movie...”

“Well there’s a lot of new movies, Y/N.” He butts in playfully, which earns a small glare in his direction (which inevitably turns into a smile, but you assume he’s too unobservant to actually notice).

“Anyway,” you exaggerate, wringing your hands together. “I want to see this movie, and no one will go with me...so I’m forcing you to be my...” you hesitate, trying to find the word. However, the one you were trying to avoid slips out. “My date.”

The boys eyes widen almost immediately as he awkwardly falls back a bit. “Your...date? Like a...date date?”

“What? No!” You say quickly, shaking your head. “No, I’m not asking you out, Harrington. I’m saving that for Family Video’s regular attendees.” You gesture to a group of giggling girls who’ve you seen here one to many times, who very obviously come here for the sole purpose that is Steve Harrington. “No, it’s cause it’s a romance movie, and I don’t really wanna’ go alone.”

He frowns and lifts his shoulders in question. “Why not?”

You laugh to yourself, the question sitting awkwardly within your mind. “Because...it’s embarrassing? I mean what would you think if you saw me by myself in that situation?”

He pauses and shrugs. “I guess I’d feel...I don’t know, pity? It’s a tough question.” He mumbles, eliciting a roll of your eyes.

You brush off his remark of it being a “tough question” and clear your throat. “Exactly, Steven. Which is why you are going to accompany me to this movie, so that way I don’t have to deal with the apparent pity.”

It’s silent for a moment. Steve chooses to lean against the counter again, as he mauls over your offer. “I don’t even like romance movies, Y/N.”

You frown and lean in closer to your friend. “I know, but please, Steve.”

You grab his hand and squeeze it, batting your eyelashes at him in the most exaggerated way you know. You don’t like manipulating people (much less your best friend), but for reasons unknown, the poor boy can never really say no to you—and you really need him to say yes.

His gaze make its way from your clasped hands, up your arm and to your face. His chest tightens and his whole body turns rigid as he watches you allow your head to lean ever-so-slightly to the side. Soon,  the tips of his ears grow hot and then -

“Um...excuse me?” Both of your necks snap to the source of the voice. It’s one of the girls from the group earlier, and you can’t help but chuckle, because she looks just as nervous as she sounds. Her eyes are quickly cast on Steve, which causes her to flick her ponytail back with a shaky smile. “My friends and I are trying to look for a certain movie, and we can’t seem to find it. Do you mind helping us?”

You turn to Steve with a smirk. He clears his throat, noticing that the hand that held his a mere few seconds ago rests casually on the counter. You look unbothered by the events that had occurred, which makes Steve’s stomach drop (and not in a good way). He frowns in your direction once more before shaking himself out of it, shooting a smile in the girls direction. “No problem.”

You laugh and stride towards the door. “The movie starts at seven, but you might as well show up thirty minutes early ‘cause you have a little tendency called ‘being late’, Harrington.”

You hold the door open, one side of your body burning with the summer heat that threatens the comfort of everyone, and the other side facing Steve and the air-conditioned store. You wait until he looks back at you, which takes him a few seconds before he’s practically shooing you away. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see.”

You jump in excitement and wink at the boy. “See you tonight, Stevie!”

“See you tonight,” he mumbles, before turning to the jittery group of girls in the corner.

•••••

“Look who’s the late one!” Steve shouts in your direction. It’s 6:50 (which is even a little late for you) and surprisingly Steve has already arrived. “Ya know I’ve been sitting here for like, fifteen minutes.”

You shut your car door and stride up the cocky boy. “Oh, I am truly sorry, your Highness, but my dear mother was keeping me up.”

He hums, looking you up and down with fake accusation. “...Apology accepted,” he shoots back before standing up and guiding the two of you to concession.

Really, it’s a miracle that the two of you made it on time. And it’s an even bigger miracle that the last two seats in the theatre were directly beside each other; enough space for the two of you, and your obscenely large bucket of popcorn.

Steve leans over to you as the lights dim dramatically. His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, forcing your attention onto him. “So, uh, what kinda’ movie title is ‘Dirty Dancing’?”

You shake your head at him and push his face towards the screen. “Just watch the movie, Farmer Fred.”

“You and your Sixteen Candles references...” he mutters before you kick his foot with yours in annoyance. “Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat, remaining quiet for the rest of your “date”.

•••••

The movie ends quickly—way too quickly for your liking, and when the lights turn back on you can’t help but frown.

The sound of clapping from the viewers drowns out the sounds of popcorn being squished on the ground and the squeaking of the seats.

Steve is standing up, his shadow casted over you as you try to steady yourself after sitting for so long. He lets you walk past him, hand grazing your lower back as he guides you through the bustling stream of exiting movie-goers.

Soon, the two of you have left the theatre itself and face the stark cold air of the night. “So...” Steve starts, slowly walking you to your car. “What did you th—“

“It was amazing!” You shout, eyes blown with excitement as you hop back and forth. With a breath you let yourself slip into pur amusement after having to control yourself for so long. “I mean the dancing and the plot was incredible! And—and the end was just...just so good! And don’t get me started on Patrick Swayze! Like, oh my god, who does he think he is just looking like that, prancing around without a care in the world?!”

Steve laughs and stops just before your car as you unlock it. “Yeah, honestly it wasn’t that bad. The lift was something else though.” He leans against the door as you put your purse into the passenger's seat. “I mean I can’t imagine doing that! And the amount of times they probably had to do it?! Geez, it’d be hell.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “Oh, come on, it didn’t look that hard.”

Steve’s jaw drops with a shake of his head. “Well it wasn’t hard for Baby, obviously. All she had to do was jump! Johnny was the one who had to hold her up!”

You laugh incredulously at your best friend before a rather treacherous idea pops in your head. You bite your lip, slam the car door shut and look out into the somewhat empty parking lot.

“Well, why don’t we out this theory to the test...?”

Steve’s laughter dies quickly before a squeak of a “what?” slips out of his mouth. You grab his hand and lead him to a rather deserted spot just south of where your cars are parked.

“Let’s try it out! Let’s be Baby and Johnny. Let’s do the lift.” Your tone turns serious which only adds to Steve’s ever-growing nervousness.

“You can’t be serious...” His hands are deep in his pockets as he leans from one foot to the other. Strands of hair in fall in front of his face, and for a moment, in the distant light, he really does look like Johnny.

You can’t help but really notice the oddity of the whole situation. What with Steve looking like a reincarnation of Johnny Castle and you deciding to get somewhat dressed up and wear your favourite sundress—one that is oddly similar to Baby’s. It’s a funny little coincidence that you opt to point out later. But now? The two of you have to do this.

You remove your jacket, leaving it on the ground and shake out your limbs before looking straight at your friend. Steve’s face deepens with his shock. “Oh god, you are serious.”

You laugh and signal at Steve to get ready. Instead he shakes his head. “Y/N, I--I don’t think this is the best idea.”

“Steve, come on! We’re testing out are hypothesis’ as to who had a more difficult time performing the lift.”

He shuffles quickly, and with a groan, throws his jacket off his body. “I swear to god, Y/N.” You here him mumble as he nervously fidgets and bends his knees. He gets into a stance similar to Johnny’s and holds out his hands to you. His whole body is shaking—which in comparison is odd because yours simply feels light.

The cold prickles at your exposed skin, and it sends your senses into overdrive as your eyes lock onto Steve’s.

Kicking off your shoes, you dig your heels into the ground and prepare yourself.

“Oh, and Steve?” His head shoots up to you. “Don’t drop me.”

He stands up straight at that as he loses his concentration. “Oh well that’s a really comforting thing to sa—WAIT!”

You had already started running. Your feet pounding against the gravel as fly-away pebbles poke the soles of your feet; your body gaining momentum with every step.

Steve rushes into the stance, desperately trying to ground himself.

“Steve!” You shout with a laugh as you jump. His hands catch your waist as he extends his legs. It almost works but with Steve’s partially delayed actions, your head barely gets above his before he’s stumbling backward.

He falls first, with you quickly following as his grip pulls you down with him.

You land on his chest, and for a moment the air is filled with shock. Rolling onto the ground beside him, you regain your breath before bursting in laughter.

“Jesus, Y/N!” He shouts, body tingling with nerves.

By now the parking lot is empty, save for the cars of the theatres workers, which means that your laugh echoes to the neighbouring buildings.

Steve pushes a hand through his hair before inhaling deeply. His eyes cast to your figure—still rolling on the ground—and before he has a chance to reprimand you, something hits him.

It’s a sudden feeling. One that pulls the last of his breath out of his lungs and throws it into the night sky. You don’t notice his sudden change in behaviour, and to be frank, he doesn’t even really recognize what he’s feeling other than the fact that he felt this...murmur this morning. Except this time it’s amplified.

He hears pounding in his ears, and as he watches the faint, yellow light from the theatre cast over your face, he feels the pit of his stomach burst open. Butterflies flutter around in his belly and threaten to escape his throat.

The feeling—one that is shocking, but not unwelcome—is indescribable. The boy gets lost in his thoughts as he watches you finally get up off the ground and gather your things.

Steve feels as though he’s watching an old tape. The pictures move slowly, and they’re a little fuzzy, but they elicit warm, nostalgic feelings.

Suddenly your voice rings through his ears, until he recognizes that you’re looking at him a little confused. Steve is snapped out of his trance, his body jumping up to match yours. Your eyes are wide as you stare him up and down. “You get another concussion?”

The joke is familiar, but his laugh is delayed. He simply shakes his head, realizing that this is the first time he’s actually looked at you (and if he’s honest, you’re making him a little nervous). He takes note that even though you look messy--with wild hair everywhere and a breathtaking smile--he can’t help but admire you in your most natural state. However you break the moment (unknowingly) with a shrug. Spinning on your heel to your car, you continue to talk to him as he walks over to the familiar, beat-up BMW. “Anyway, I was saying that for a first time that wasn’t bad. We just need a little practice.”

“The first time?” Steve questions, leaning on the roof of his car. “There’s gonna’ be a second time?”

You shrug with a cheeky smile. “If you want...”

He allows a small smile—a smile he can’t tell if you catch from the distance, but one he hopes you feel. “Yeah. I do.”

You smile back at him, and soon your bidding him goodnight and driving out of the parking lot.

Steve, on the other hand waits. He’s stunned, obviously. So much so that part of him is concerned about this new revelation. But the other part of him, recognizes it. He may be oblivious, but he’s not necessarily stupid.

And how could he be? When he hasn’t felt this way before...and it’s such a strong feeling. If anything, he’s forced to figure it out.

He grins to himself, the sight of you burned into his memory and carved into his heart. It’s the kind of sight that he knows he’ll see behind closed eyes and dazed moments where he can’t help but let his mind wander.

It’s a sight that promises something new.

He can’t wait to tell Robin about this.

•••••

Steve Harrington Taglist:

@wigofokoye @timeladygallifrey @fairlysuitehearts @loulouloueh @bluegreyme @coltonparayyko @readinthegarden12 @hello-therree @gothackedalready @aphrodites-perfume @arielizzlewizzle @fic-cheesecake @bohemiandeakyy @nerd-domland @blueoz @laneygthememequeen @xelaalec @i-justlikewhales @elen-alambil @heykarsyn @yellowhopes @veeshthefrog @justsomeficsilike @cxddlyash @aniya21890 @billyhargrovescigarette @nugturally @daddystevee @asheseiler @enchantedcruelsummer @gwenandtheunfortunatename

[newmayhem]

Character Analysis: Risika (Part 1)

As always, I’ll keep using original names if I’m talking specifically about the original iteration and in quotations and stuff, but I’ll be referring to everyone by their new names in all other situations.

Because ITFOTN is, at the end of the day, Roksana’s story, technically most of the posts on this blog will be some sort of analysis of her character. So to keep this from being redundant, this post will just be about her personality, and then I’ll post a separate thing analyzing her motivations (and possibly tying that in with larger themes in the story).

Anyway, on with the character analysis.

Maybe I’m just too close to the material, but for me, even with the book told from Roksana’s first person pov (we’re literally inside her mind the entire time), I’ve always struggled to pin down her personality. I think what’s tough about figuring out Roksana’s character is that a lot of the book is about things happening to her, and with the exception of the very end, she doesn’t do a lot of major decision-making, and in storytelling, those are the key moments when a person’s true character is revealed. But from what I have to go on, I could make the following inferences:

Roksana’s a fighter. That’s why she’s one of the strongest vampires. She resisted her vampirism at every turn as much as she could until she couldn’t anymore. She fought Ather when she was bitten, she pushed Ather away when she realized she was being forced to drink her blood, she wouldn’t feed until the hunger pains literally became too much for her bear, and for her first few years of being a vampire, she denied herself blood unless and until it was absolutely necessary. She wasn’t all or nothing and gave into it all as soon as she tasted blood for the first time- it was a series of concessions that happened over time out of necessity but she was always pushing herself to her absolute limit no matter where that limit was. I think her final effort of resistance, the very last thing she could do to keep herself from giving up all her morals and becoming ‘just like them’, was to recuse herself from vampire society. 

That said, despite her own best efforts, Roksana does have a strong survival instinct. There were many times when she could’ve just let herself die/be killed, but instead she reluctantly chose to keep on living (knowing that Alejandro would’ve made a different, supposedly more honorable, choice). She keeps trying to hold herself to this moral standard that her brother has set even though she knows deep down that that’s not who she really is, and when she inevitably falls short, she blames and shames herself. I think a huge part of her story is her coming to terms with who she really is and what her values are, especially in the face of both Alejandro and Andros trying to impose their own values on her.

When you combine these first two qualities it raises some interesting questions- is her victory over Andros in the end actually (as Alejandro assumes) her failing to uphold her moral boundaries? If not, does that mean that her centuries spent resisting her vampirism weren’t admirable, but rather foolish and naive? If that’s the case, does that mean she’s not a ‘strong’ character, after all?

This internal conflict does speak to the fact that, at least compared to Alejandro, Roksana’s practical needs will always win out over whatever faith or ideals she might have. And I think it’s meaningful that this is even an internal conflict for her at all because for Alejandro and his parallel situation of having to siphon off someone else’s life force in order to survive as a triste, there is no conflict- he believes that everything he’s done to survive is in line with his morals.

In looking at Roksana’s first person narration, we see that she’s not very transparent, she’s careful about what she shares with others, and she’s just very solitary (borderline curmudgeonly, which I enjoy).

Something that immediately jumped out at me upon rereading ITFOTN is that despite her claims of having spent most of her life keeping her distance from other vampires, she speaks an awful lot about vampiric tendencies and feels very comfortable making those generalizations. She could be lying, or it could be that she’s very observant and maybe even goes out of her way to keep her eyes and ear open (but from the sidelines), which is a trait that I think falls in line with how I see her. I can see her normally carrying herself stealthily, like she’s trying to make herself invisible.

She seems to be a loner but it’s unclear if it’s by choice or by necessity. I’m thinking it started off as necessity - she didn’t feel safe interacting with other vampires, she doesn’t want to be like the, everyone she’s ever loved was taken away from her so she doesn’t want to get too close to anyone for fear of it happening again - which was fine, she I imagine she already had a natural inclination towards solitude anyway, and with time she convinced herself that she was better off alone, that she didn’t want friendships or relationships, or anything...but then there are definitely moments when she craves connection (hence why she lurks and people watches, and eventually befriends a tiger).

Going off on my reimagining of her backstory, it could also be that her introversion started when she was really young- she felt really alienated from the people around her but wasn’t able to adapt to it by becoming charming and sociable like Alejandro did, after a while she tells herself that she prefers being alone, which causes her to come off as very standoffish, and it’s a vicious cycle.

I mentioned before in Alejandro’s analysis- I imagine them as being opposites in terms of personality. Roksana’s highly introverted, not talkative at all, kind of morose, always turning something over in her head, perhaps even to the point of destructive rumination.

That said, I feel like she’s genre savvy in a different way than Alejandro in that she listens more than she speaks, and I suspect she's more calculating than Alejandro. There’s also evidence in scenes like when Ather and Andros show up at her house and when Roksana and Andros fight for the first time, when she slaps and later threatens Andros after he shittalked Alejandro, and when she trespassed on Andros’ territory despite his warning, that she’s a bit of a spitfire. She’s definitely much quicker to lash out than Alejandro is and when she lashes out, it’s very impactful, sometimes reckless, and takes people by surprise. I don’t think it’s so much that she has a short fuse, but the opposite- in my version of Roksana, she has a lot of pent up anger and general emotion that she normally keeps a lid on, so once she reaches her limit, it all explodes. A woman at that time (her original time period) was not encouraged to speak her mind or express any sort of dissatisfaction or anger, and so that must’ve shaped how Roksana deals with self expression.

Some other traits I can infer from the text:

She can be resourceful and clever- as demonstrated by how she cons old people into giving her an inheritance, and more importantly, how she ended the fight with Andros by shifting into tiger form in order to overpower him. I’d really like to add more moments like this in the rewrite.

She’s a little mean sometimes (idk, I just found it hilarious when she said that her sister was really plain and was probably jealous of her).

Also, there’s no way she hasn’t suffered from some sort of PTSD after everything she’s been through.

[tendertenebrosity]

So, @castielamigos was asking me about the Mage story with Rill. I actually attempted to write his story for NaNoWriMo several years ago, but petered out after a handful of chapters. 

I re-read the document just now and it’s... okay? I can tell my writing’s changed. The very first chapter - mostly introductory stuff - is under the cut if it would be of interest to anybody. 

Chapter One

Rill looked up at the walls of the Camrissian Academy of Magic with a light, sick feeling in his chest.

His wife, Talia, finished instructing the driver to return to pick her up. She approached behind him and took his arm.

“Well,” she said briskly. “Here we are. Do you have all of your things?”

“Yes,” Rill said. It wasn’t as if he had so many ‘things’ that he could have lost track of any in the carriage ride from the Ambirana town house to the Academy. A single bag over his shoulder contained his plainest sets of clothing, a few personal grooming items, and two books. He had no idea what he was going to need, or for that matter what he was going to be allowed to keep - he had a vague recollection that mages weren’t allowed much in the way of possessions. It seemed best to be frugal.

“Well,” Talia said again, and squeezed his arm gently. She joined him in looking up at the Academy. “It’s a beautiful old building.”

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose.”

He gathered his thoughts. He would rather say most of his goodbyes out here, just in case they didn’t get any time alone later. “Talia… I want to thank you for… the last few weeks,” he said awkwardly. “It’s been… you’ve been…”

“Rill, I’m sorry it took something like this to…” she frowned and shook her head. “Get us to sort ourselves out.” She unhooked her arm from his and wrapped an arm around his waist for an embrace. “I think we could have… we would have been okay in the end. We had a rocky start but we could have made it work. If it wasn’t for…”

“Magic,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?” He tried to smile.

Privately he thought it was easy to tell themselves it would have worked out if only it had been allowed to, now that external factors had made the question moot. In some ways it’s ideal, he thought sadly. I wanted a way out of the marriage that didn’t have repercussions for our families, didn’t I? Nobody can be held to blame for it, and now Talia can get a proper husband like she should have.

There was no way he would voice that self-pitying spiel to Talia, though. He had enough self respect for that at least.

“Anyway,” he said. “I – I do love you, Talia.”

She sighed, and pulled him close for a few seconds. “My poor Rill.”

He held her for a while, but pulled back when he felt a lump rise in his throat. “Come on,” he said, pulling away. He resettled his bag on his shoulder and held his arm out properly for her to take, smiling. “I’m sure they’d rather we got there as soon as possible.”

“It’s been two months,” Talia said offhandedly. “I think another five minutes wouldn’t result in you bursting into flames. But if you’re ready.”

Rill wasn’t sure he was comfortable joking about bursting into flames. He took a deep breath, and they opened the door and entered the Magic Academy together.

Inside it was quiet and high-ceilinged, with a deep blue carpet on the stone floor.  

A woman in a high-collared uniform coat of the same blue straightened up from her position against a wall. There was another, a man, on the other side of the hallway. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“I am Lady Talia Ambirana,” Talia announced. “We wish to speak to someone about magic.”

The mage-watchers – for that was what the blue uniform signified – exchanged a glance with each other. “Of course, lady,” the woman said. “What, specifically, regarding magic did you wish to speak about?”

“My husband has recently discovered that he possesses magic,” Talia said haughtily, as if daring her to think badly of them for it. She had behaved much the same way with her family.

Both of the magewatcher’s eyes shifted to Rill immediately. He tried to emulate Talia’s poise.

“I see, my lady,” the first magewatcher said. “If your husband would step through here, then, I’ll be back to speak with you shortly.” She stepped forward, obviously expecting to take Rill somewhere.

So soon? Resignedly, Rill moved to disentangle himself from Talia, but she pulled him closer with a meaningful glance. “I meant we wanted to talk to someone with authority,” she said. “I’m not intending to drop him off like a parcel.”

The magewatcher’s mouth thinned into a line. “Very well, my lady,” she said after a few moments of thought. “Hannivel? I’ll see if the mage commander has a moment.”

“Please do,” Talia said, although it hadn’t been addressed to her.

They waited for her to return. Rill might have said something to Talia – something like, “Tali, I have to live here, I don’t know if you should be making me enemies”. But Magewatcher Hannivel stood there in a relaxed but alert posture, watching them both but mostly Rill. So he decided not to say anything.

“Mage commander Laurent has some time to talk to you,” the first magewatcher said when she returned, without even an address. “If you’d follow me.”

She led them through a few doorways and down another blue-carpeted hallway; Hannivel had fallen in behind them. The magewatchers didn’t act quite like soldiers; maybe a bit more like the city watch.

Mage commander Laurent turned out to be a tall man in his late thirties with rumpled brown hair and a deep crease between his eyebrows. He stood up as they entered.

“Lady… Ambirana, was it?” he said. “And…?” he cocked his head at Rill.

“Emerill Ambirana se Rezdin,” Rill said, giving a very shallow bow. “At your service, sir.”

Laurent gave him a measuring look. “Are you? Good. Show me your hands.”

A little startled, Rill put out his right hand as if Laurent was going to shake it. Instead, the mage commander took hold of his wrist and tilted his hand to the light, examining it.

Rill realised he knew what he was looking for. “Oh,” he said. “If you’re looking for what I think you are, it was there, but it went away after a day or so. Is it… normal?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow at him. “Would you mind describing it for me?”

“My fingers were blue,” Rill admitted. “Not all over – just in patches. It was as if I’d spilled ink on them, but brighter, and it wouldn’t come off. This was after… uh… after I did something to the fire.”

“’Did something’?”

“It flared up,” Rill said. “There was another time when I made these… lights, but that didn’t last any more than a minute or so.”

Laurent nodded and let his wrist go. “You’re quite right,” he said, sitting down and gesturing for them to do the same. “Master Ambirana does indeed have magic. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to either of you that that means he belongs in the Academy now.”

“Yes,” Talia said. “That’s why we’re here.” She told Laurent all of the basic details of the story.

Laurent listened with the crease between his eyes growing deeper. “You mean to say,” he said when Talia had finished. “You have known about this for two months, and it took you until now to come to an Academy.”

Well, more than two months, Rill thought to himself guiltily. I didn’t tell Tali until it had been happening for weeks.

“We were travelling,” Talia snapped. “We had to get here.”

“Unless you were in the Lianese Empire, I seriously doubt you were two months away from an Academy,” Laurent said grimly. “Do either of you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

“My husband would never knowingly work unauthorised magic,” Talia said, scowling.

“That is not the point,” Laurent said. “Did he or did he not just admit to -” He cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “Our instructions have always been very clear,” he said in a quieter voice. “Newly discovered mages need to go to their nearest Academy, as soon as possible.”

“We have always lived in this city,” Talia snapped. “We –”

“You put yourselves and everybody around you in danger,” Laurent interrupted. “I don’t care why. I’m just glad that you’ve come here without anybody having to pay a steep price for your foolishness. It could very well have happened.”

Talia drew herself up, but didn’t argue. “Well, he is here now,” she said coldly.  

Laurent cocked his head and looked at Rill. “Do you have anything to add to this?” he asked.

“It… didn’t seem that pressing,” Rill said tentatively. “I’m sorry. It only happened a handful of times.”

“That is no predictor,” Laurent said. “It’s not unusual for the first or second manifestation of magic to be one of the very… destructive ones. You are not in control of the magic, and you have no chance of gaining control over it except here.”

Rill nodded. “Yes. I know that.”

Laurent sat back and looked at Rill for a moment. “You are Emrissian, aren’t you?” he said, looking over to include Talia in the question.

How is that relevant? Rill glanced at Talia. “Yes, we are,” he said.

“Why?” Talia asked, her eyes narrowing. It had been a long time since anybody had caused any problems about that in Camris.

Laurent shrugged. “Just an observation. I will say this, though – and I will tell you exactly once before you start to infringe on my patience.” His voice wasn’t harsh, just matter of fact. “Neither your birth nor religion will get you any concessions here. Our rules are our rules, and as soon as I sign this paper, Master Ambirana will be a mage under our jurisdiction like any other. This is most important for him, but I suggest you bear it in mind as well, Lady Ambirana.” He flashed a polite smile, and then pulled a piece of paper across the desk and began writing on it. “Was there anything pressing you needed to see me for? Most of this could have been covered by Watcher Lillan.”

“There are legalities to deal with,” Talia said, coolly. “I cannot be expected to discuss…”

“If you drop off the necessary documents in the next day or so, I will fill them out,” Laurent said. “For the moment, I think it best that you make your farewells and let Watcher Lillan take Rill into the academy. There is a two month period of novitiate in which mages are not allowed visitors; after that you may come see him on the second and fourth Sunday of every month. Any further questions you have, I suggest you address them to Magewatcher Hannivel, or whoever else is on duty in the hall.” He signed the piece of paper with a workmanlike scrawl, not at all the way Rill would have signed something official, and started on another. “Watcher Lillan!” he called. “Please show Lady Ambirana out.”

They stood. For a second or two Talia planted her feet, eyes flashing, but Rill tugged on her arm gently. Please don’t make this more difficult than it is.

She glanced at him, and tossed her head. “Thank you for your time, good sir,” she said haughtily.

Outside the office, Watcher Lillan nodded at him. “You can have a minute. And give the lady back that bag; you can’t take anything in with you.”

“Oh,” Rill said, his stomach dropping. “But I need – could I leave it with someone and get it back later?” She was shaking her head. “Not even – but clothes?”

“We have everything you’ll need here already,” she said. She gave him a surprisingly sympathetic look.

“What about a book?” he said, trying to keep a pleading edge out of his voice. “You won’t have… No. No, nothing, right. I understand.”

You could recite most of those poems by heart anyway, he told himself. You don’t need it. But truthfully, he had wanted it more for the inscription in the front, and the memories. His sister had given him that book.

He put the bag down, and turned around to run into a full-body hug from Talia.

“Be careful, darling,” she whispered. She smelled of roses and that heavy perfume they’d picked up a crate of in Phynnis.  

“I will,” he said. “A-and I’ll see you in two months?” Please.

“Of course. Of course.” She sniffled, and tightened her arms before letting go. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

[talesfromthefade]

Eloise Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford, for @siofrasongs & @dadrunkwriting

Eloise grits her teeth, staring unseeing out over the battlements. She is not altogether proud of her presently less than charitable thoughts about the Templar order, or by extension, the Chantry. Given the state Cullen was in just before he asked her for a little time, she’s inclined to think it’s at least somewhat justified. He looked terrible. Clammy, unkempt hair, his face couldn’t have seen a razor in at least two days. More than that he looked exhausted. When he’d stumbled slightly, catching himself on the edge of his desk as he moved to speak to her… her heart seized in her chest.

It simply isn’t fair. When will it all be enough? When will he have given enough? And what will he have left, what will she have when they are done with him?

Eloise is a healer. Was training to be, at least, before all of this mess started. Cullen may be reluctant to speak about it, evasive answering her questions, but she’s not unaware of the symptoms, of the risks of what he is doing. Did she do the right thing? She wants him free of this. Cassandra is right, if anyone can free themselves from Lyrium’s grasp, she’s no doubt Cullen is a person of such mettle. She just wishes he didn’t have to suffer so much to do so.

He doesn’t.

She could help.

Not with all of it, but ease some of the headaches, fever, and chills… if he’d only let her.

Except he doesn’t want her to see him like this. Stubborn man. How can he possibly think the uncertainty, this sense of powerlessness in being apart from him would be preferable?

It’s been a good two days now since she stumbled in on his conversation with Cassandra and they spoke about his continuing to abstain from Lyrium. She’s left the hold for little jobs here and there but has been reluctant to go anywhere more than a day’s ride away until she can be assured that he is well again. It’s silly, and he’d probably hate it if he realized that’s what she was doing, would somehow find a way to feel even guiltier about what he’s doing.

She’s debating the merits of visiting his office to check on him when she suddenly spots him making his way across the wall to join her. She’s gazing into the sun to see him, but the form and mantle are unmistakable, and he walks a little straighter, more like his usual self than the last she’d seen him. Eloise dares to breathe a small sigh of relief and wordless prayer of thanks to Andraste for it.

Cullen fumbles his way through an attempted thanks of his own, the way he so often does whenever the pair of them have the opportunity to speak about themselves or this thing budding between them. It’s rather adorable how flustered he seems to get. Eloise recalls a number of suitors who visited the estate before her magic was discovered and she was sent away to the Circle, but most of them were after the title, the land, fortune, and she merely a necessary obstacle in the way of those things. To be appreciated, pursued like this, especially now, and having seen her at both her best and possibly her worst, is flattering, to say the least.

“You look better,” Eloise blurts out before she can think about the way it will sound. “Like you’re feeling better, I mean-” she stammers, quickly trying to find a way to correct herself. “Maker,” she mumbles under her breath, temporarily ducking to avoid his gaze as a flush creeps up her cheeks. Cullen chuckles, shaking his head, then smiles, in what Eloise hopes means he finds her fumblings as endearing as she does his.

“I am,” he replies finally when her hazel eyes are drawn back up to his.

“Is it always that bad?” She can’t be sure how forthright he will be with her about what he’s suffering, even having seen a fraction of it first-hand, but the healer in her, the young woman that’s falling in love with him- if she isn’t gone already- can’t not ask.

“The pain comes and goes.” It’s more of an admission than she might have expected. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there…” Eloise nods. They’re something of an odd couple- a Spirit-Healer mage and a former Templar. Then again, given that both of their greatest trauma and nightmares come from their Circles, perhaps, not so odd. “I should not have pushed myself so far that day.”

It’s enough of an unexpected concession, she can’t help the slight look of surprise that comes over her face. Fortunately, Cullen seems to be busying himself with surveying the distant mountains, or perhaps the camp of troops in the valley below. It’s admirable, the work he does for the Inquisition. Necessary, even, but she’s long thought the Commander could stand to take a little more time for- and better care of himself. She recognizes that unhealthy compulsion towards martyrdom to apologize for real or imagined past-wrongs or shortcomings.

“I’m just glad you’re alright.” It’s so far short of what she wants to say, but the only words she can seem to summon at the moment. Words, much as she loves them have never been her best or preferred way of communicating, of demonstrating care, but not knowing what he might immediately need now, this will have to do.

“I am,” he confirms, nodding. “I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle. I was… Not myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. I’m not proud of the man that made me. The way I saw mages… I’m not sure I would have cared about you, and the thought of that sickens me. Now I can put some distance between myself and everything that’s happened. It’s a start.” Cullen keeps stealing glances at her, then turning away, almost as if he’s afraid to meet her gaze. They’ve talked a few times, briefly upon his time in Ferelden before now, and his time in Kirkwall when they first began searching in earnest for Samson, and Maddox. None of this is anything entirely new. Can he really think that she might turn him away now?

“For what it’s worth. I like who you are now.”

“Even after…?” Two words and Eloise feels her heart break for the man standing in front of her. For the way, those two words, the surprised, even hopeful expression on his face, tugs at her chest, and she knows she will have to tell him the truth about herself soon. She loves him too much to keep lying to him about it, even by omission. Whether he might still have room in his heart for her ‘even after’ she can’t say, but answering him is the easiest thing in the world.

“Cullen, I care about you. You’ve done nothing to change that.”

Eloise watches as a weight is visibly lifted from his shoulders, mantle and pauldrons sagging a little in relief, as his chin dips to hide the softest hints of a smile behind the fur.

“What about you,” he redirects with a shrug towards her. “You have troubles of your own. How are you holding up?” Eloise bites her lip. She’s not entirely sure ‘holding up’ is the right word for what she’s doing. There are days treading water seems a far more accurate description. For her part, she still isn’t entirely sure what any of them were thinking of putting her in charge of everything, or why any of them trust her with such important decisions, even if she does have excellent advisors to counsel her.

“Honestly, I’m terrified. So many people depend on us. On me. Corypheus is still out there.”

“We’ve made great strides,” Cullen insists. “Do not doubt yourself- or the Inquisition- just yet. If there’s anything I can do, you have only to ask.” You do enough, Eloise thinks, fighting back a frown, and anything that she might ask of him would be not as her commander, but as a friend, as… whatever it is they are now. To that end, she addresses him, as is fitting for the sort of request she is making.

“Cullen, just- take care not to give too much of yourself away?” Cullen smiles softly carefully slipping one gloved hand into hers.

“Only if you promise the same.”

“I… I will try,” she promises, relishing the warmth of his hand in hers, even as she curses the gloves that separate them.

“So will I.”

[sleepyfan-blog]

Confession Time [Chapter 1]

AO3 link here.

chapter two here

shout out to @trashydragonartist7 and for helping me edit this thing

Fandom: Dreamtale AU

characters and pairing: Dream, Nightmare, dreammare

word count: 4,147

warnings: none

summary: Dream suggests a new game for them to play in order to encourage Nightmare to open up to him. Pre-Apples.

Dream watched Nightmare walk towards him, book in hand, shoulders hunched and his body posture all curled in on himself. The other had gone to the village in order to try to borrow one of the books at the small library. He'd insisted on going himself - rather than Dream getting up to go get as many books as the other wanted (carefully writing down what sort of subjects the other wanted to read). From the defensive way that the other was holding himself... It hadn't gone very well. Dream had no idea why the villagers didn't like Nightmare - his other half was loving and kind...

But Nightmare would never really talk about whatever was bothering him, no matter how persistent Dream was about trying to talk to the other - Nightmare would sometimes even teleport out of sight and hide for days if he was too pushy... Which was frustrating and worrying, as all he wanted was to help the other... If Nightmare wouldn't talk to him outright... Maybe if they played a game (both of them loved playing games, especially two-player games together) Nightmare would feel better about opening up? But what sort of game could they play that would ensure that the other would talk about what was bothering him... Or what he possibly felt guilty or unsure about?

Clearly this called for a new game, and Dream was determined to figure it out. His eye lights dimmed for a bit as he watched Nightmare walk the rest of the way to their tree, sitting down on the far side, so that no one who came up towards them from the village would immediately see him. After thinking for a while, Dream's eye lights brightened - this game would probably work! The positive spirit peeked around the trunk of the large tree, his heart lurching a little as he saw Nightmare had buried his face in his hands, and the other's shoulders were shaking a little. Violet tears were soaking into his clothes.

Instantly Dream rushed around The Tree and hugged his beloved other half tightly, distressed that the other had managed to hide the pain and misery that he was ever so slightly emitting from him. "Shh... It's... It's going to be okay, Nighty... S'okay… Do you..." He wanted to ask why Nightmare was crying, but that never ended in the truth. Time to take the plunge. "Do you want to play a game? I... I made a new one up, a little while ago, and I have the rules down and everything."

"I..." Nightmare started, his voice shaky as he clung tightly to the positive spirit, hesitating for a couple of moments before continuing, sounding and feeling a little surprised. "Sure, Dream. What's the game you thought of? I... I'm not sure that I'm up for a running-around kind of game."

"That's okay! It's not a running-around game. It's a talking game," Dream responded back, squeezing his beloved for a couple of moments before continuing. "It's called Confession Time. There are three basic rules. The first is that we have to be completely honest with each other about what we talk about. The second is that no matter what one of us tells the other, we can't hold grudges or be mad at what the other says... And the third rule is that after we finish talking, we have to cuddle with one another for at least five minutes afterwards, okay?"

"I... Oh... Okay. Wh-what are the goals of the game, Dream?" Nightmare asked, his voice a little quieter and the uncertainty and worry in his aura intensifying a little.

But the other was still hugging him, which Dream took to mean that he was at least open to playing the game. "Well... We take turns talking about stuff that worries us... Or like, if we did or said something... Or didn’t do or say something that makes one of us feel guilty, we talk about it. So that it doesn't feel like an awful weight that we think that we have to keep hidden from the other."

"... Dream... I.." Nightmare started, fidgeting a little and shifting away from him in an unsure manner, the uncertainty and stress rising within the other's aura.

"Oh! A-and while we're talking, we're on opposite sides of the tree... So that we're close to one another while talking, but it's easier to talk than if we were to be face to face. Cuddles happen after the talking. Also, each turn begins with the person who’s talking to say Confession Time, so that the other knows that what they’re saying is something that they’re confessing, rather than talking about what the other person said. If… If we’re comfortable, we can talk about what we confess before the other person takes the next turn- but we don’t have to," Dream explained, guessing part of what the other was so distressed about... His visible reaction to whatever the other had to say. "So... So what do you think about the game?"

"I... It sounds... It sounds interesting..." The negative spirit responds uncertainly, though the stress in the other's aura lowered somewhat. "I... Could we maybe play the game a-at sunset? I just... I just want to hug you and read my book for right now."

It wasn't a no! Dream was determined to make sure that Nightmare would actually talk to him about what was bothering him... And depending on how Confession Time went, he hoped that they could make this a daily game that they played... Or at least one that they played every couple of days, as Dream could tell that there were a lot of things that bothered his beloved. It was worrisome that Nightmare didn't seem to want to talk about them... Maybe because the other thought that it would upset him? But... Even if whatever it was that was bothering Nighty did upset him, that didn't mean that Dream didn't want to hear it. He wanted to be there for his beloved, to support and care for him in all of the ways that Night has supported him. Guilt hit the positive spirit hard (again) and after a moment, Dream did his best to suppress the emotion, not wanting to worry Nightmare.

Oh. It seemed as if they both had things that they were going to need to confess. Although Dream had planned on going first in order to get them talking about stuff, unless Nightmare actively wanted to talk first. Dream snuggled into his beloved, pressing a light kiss to one of the other's cheeks, content to settle into his lap.

~

The rest of the day went by rather slowly for Dream, though he was quite content to sit next to Nightmare and read over the other's shoulder as the day went by. He was rather glad that no one had tried to come to The Tree Of Feelings to beg for an apple of positivity - claiming that they needed it to heal someone, or to save a loved one. None of the apples were meant to be eaten, as they represented the positive and negative emotions of everyone - and unless one knew which apple was theirs specifically... Consuming someone else's apple - positive or negative would cause that other person to lose all of those feelings. Or something along those lines. Dream wasn't entirely sure what would happen, but they'd been created to protect the tree and the apples from all who would try to use them.

As soon as the sun began to dip low on the horizon, the positive guardian gently tapped Nightmare on one of his shoulders, asking quietly, "Do you want to play the new game I came up with? You... You did promise that we'd play at sunset..."

Nightmare sighed a little as he marked his place in the book he'd been reading with a little bit of magic before closing it and setting it down. "I did. I suppose I am ready, although I... I don't know how well this game is going to go... Are we... Is the person being confessed to allowed to talk about what the confessor is trying to talk about? Or do we just say what's bothering us and then leave it at that?"

"Depending on what it is, and if both of us are comfortable with talking about whatever it is that's confessed, of course! But we don't have to, and it's up to the confessor if they wanna talk about what they confessed about. If they don't want to talk more about it, they should just say that they don't, and the matter will be left as it is. Okay?" Dream decided after a moment, doing his best to gauge the other's reaction. The entire reason why he'd come up with this game is to try to get Nightmare to talk to him about what was bothering him. He was willing to make a few concessions about how much they talked about whatever it was if the other would actually speak of the issues weighing on his spirit.

Nightmare brightened up a little and smiled a little at that, nodding in agreement as he kissed Dream briefly before pressing his forehead to the other's, humming softly and smiling a little "I... Thank you, Dream. Who'll go to the other side of the tree? Who'll start?"

"... I can, if you want me to, for both things?" Dream offered, gently cupping one of his beloved's cheeks. His golden eye lights shining with warmth and affection, hope burning bright in his chest. This had the potential to help quite a bit - or so the positive spirit hoped. Nightmare nodded in response, and Dream made his way around the tree, stopping when he knew that he was directly across from the other and lightly knocked on the main trunk of the tree. Part of him wanted to start with something easy to confess too - but another part of him wanted to start with a heavier topic, one that burned in his soul... But would the latter distress Nightmare too much to continue? Lighter it was, just to be safe. "Confession time - I... I ate the last of the hand pies we made instead of giving them away to the villagers, like we agreed."

"Aww... Dream... It's okay. I snuck a couple more as well. They're really good and I didn't particularly feel like sharing as well." Nightmare responded, his voice neutral, but he could feel the amusement in the other's aura. The other cleared his (nonexistent) throat a little and said, "Confession time... You know when Mx. Kaninchen came to the tree and said that I pranked them? And I told you that I wasn't involved with that? I... I lied. I did prank them - and I don't regret making all of that dirt fall on them."

The positive spirit had... expected that, actually. The lapine monster had been saying all sorts of awful things about Nightmare for months, and he knew that his other half only had so much patience before it ran out. "It’s okay, I've played pranks on people I don't like before, too... and it's not like you threw manure on them, like they claimed that you did."

He could feel the surprise from Nightmare, and Dream wondered what it was that the other was startled about. Of course he'd forgive the other for a fairly harmless prank like that. It wasn't as if anyone had gotten sick or injured because of it. "Wait. What do... What do you mean, people you don't like? I thought... I thought that you liked everyone, Dream. And since when do you play pranks on people?"

Dream sighed a little, rubbing his temples with a couple of fingers, regretting being quite so blunt. "Err... Haha... I was going to confess about that soon, actually. Do you want to talk about Mx. Kaninchen or the prank more?"

"No, I... I just wanted to tell you that I lied to you about pulling a prank on them." Nightmare answered honestly, confusion and curiosity mixing with surprise in the other's aura.

"Confession time: I... I am polite to a lot more people because it's easier to deal with them that way... The only person I regularly interact with who I genuinely like... is you, Nightlight. I don't particularly care for any of the villagers, and that's always been true." Dream hesitantly confessed before wincing a little. This was meant for him to get Nightmare to open up to him...

"I... Uhm... I would like to know why that is, if... If you want to tell me?" Nightmare hesitantly asked after a moment, the shock in the other's aura eclipsing his other emotions.

"... The villagers can be... really overwhelming, especially when they come in big groups and they always look to me and ask me things... a-as if I know the answers to everything and their... Their often conflicting and clashing emotional auras can be incredibly draining to deal with. They... They want me to solve their every problem - and they blame you as the source of many of them and I hate it! You're not the source of all misfortune and suffering! But every time I try to explain that, I get brushed off, or talked down to, like I'm some silly child that needs protecting!" Dream explained, his voice rising and falling a little, and he jolted a little as he realized that he was starting to yell. "I just... I would rather spend time with you, beneath the tree. But they find every little excuse to try to drag me away from you and I... I d-don't know wh-why I c-can't say n-no to them because I want to h-help... I r-really do but I just..."

"... They can take too much from you, and you don't know how to ask them to stop without feeling selfish?" Nightmare offered quietly, his voice warm and full of understanding.

Dream could also sense surprise lingering in the other's aura. He winced a little, realizing that he'd been... hiding the fact that he had... some difficulties with how he interacted with the villagers, like Nightmare quite probably did. Not that the other had actually told him about it. Although the positive spirit did sometimes come across them saying awful things or trying to attack his other half- he always put a stop to it as fast as he could - whether by talking the villagers down or just straight up grabbing Nightmare and teleporting the two of them back to the tree. Not that the other ever told him why the villagers were trying to attack him. "I... Yeah. That's how I feel." This game was supposed to help Nightmare, his own issues were likely much smaller in comparison to his other half's. Hopefully his ranting would encourage the other to talk about what was weighing on him, which helped to assuage some of the guilt that was running through Dream.

Nightmare was silent for a couple of moments before speaking very softly. "Confession time - even though I know that the mortals won't like it if I go to their village, I... I try to go at least once in a while, in... In the hopes that maybe I'll meet someone who won't hate me on sight. The... Sometimes the kids don't always instantly hate me or are too scared, but the adults won't let me teach them or play games... And I... I do this by myself because they pretend to be nice to me when we're together, and I really hate that they act so two-faced when you're around because they know it upsets you when they try to hurt me."

Dream could feel tears burning in his eye sockets, and he took in a couple of deep, steadying breaths in order to make sure that he didn't say anything rash. It hurt to know that for sure... but he didn't want to upset his beloved by reacting too strongly to it - as he suspected that Nightmare hid things from him in an attempt to protect him from the darker sides of the villagers. "Oh..." He was going to have a talk with the village elders after this. Something had to be done about the way that his other half was being treated. Though... Dream wasn't sure how to go about that sort of conversation - as they might just brush him aside - or give him promises that would not only turn out to be empty and false... but also cause his beloved to suffer worse as they falsely assume that Nightmare was trying to coerce him into talking them into treating his other half better. "Does... Does it ever work?"

Nightmare hesitated for a moment, before saying quietly, “Occasionally there is a traveler who comes to the Village. Whether they are here to visit the tree that they have heard of in stores and myths, or because they are simply going from one place to another. They are usually a lot more polite to me, and tart because they are tired and do not react as much to my aura as the villagers do. But that doesn't last long as the travelers are kept away from me, so that I don't corrupt them or something equally ridiculous like that.”

Dream swallowed down his initial reaction. It was disappointing to hear that the villagers were so against him. But the positive spirit was not entirely surprised by this. Occasionally the villagers would try to convince him to stay with them, rather than return to the tree and his beloved, as if he would be happier with them. Dream always patiently explained that he and Nightmare were two halves of the same whole- and therefore were meant to stay together. Their sacred duty, the one for which they've been created, was to protect the true feelings from any who would use the apples. That normally assuaged them, although sometimes they would get very insistent. Dream would deliberately avoid the villagers for a couple of weeks after those incidents, doing his best to keep his love close as well. “Awh… I'm really sorry that the villagers are such jerks.”

"I... It's not your fault that they are like that... But thank you for your kind words. You... You're..." The negative spirit seemed to be struggling to come up with something to say, as if his thoughts were a mess. "I love you so very much, Dream. I always will. I hope that you know that."

"I love you too, Nightmare." The positive spirit responded back earnestly. He could sense that the other's emotions were all over the place - guilty, love, care, worry, and others that he couldn't readily identify. Dream knew that his own feelings were all over the place as well and was very glad that he had included the ‘we must cuddle’ rule, as he was feeling very uncertain at the moment and desperately wanted a hug from the other. "Do... Do you want to continue the game right now? Or... Or should we stop for now?"

"I think that I would like to play this game more tomorrow… F-For now, I think I want to e-end the game and hug you for a while,” Nightmare answered after hesitating for a couple of moments. "I... I'm glad that we played this game today, and I...  I think that it... m-might help if we do continue to play it regularly... I'm just... I just really want to be done for now."

Dream could sense the stress and uncertainty in his beloved's aura and immediately rushed around the tree and tackled Nightmare, his arms wrapping tightly around the other, wanting to apologize for ranting at the other about some of his own issues - but that would probably reveal the fact that he'd thought up this game to specifically help the other and he... He didn't know how Night would react and he didn't want the other to draw away from him even further than he already had. But he had hope that this had bridged the distance between the two of them a little bit. "Sounds good to me. I love you so much, Nightmare."

"And I love you dearly as well, Dream." The negative spirit answered back, warmth and affection in the other's aura and on his face as the two of them sat down, closely cuddled together. "It's already nighttime... I hadn't realized that we'd been talking for so long. The stars are out, Dreamy. Do you want to see them?"

".... Maybe in a little bit. I want... I'd rather just hold and hug you for now... I-If you don't mind." Dream stuttered out, a small wave of panic hitting him - maybe the other was trying to be subtle and ask him to move away a bit? Or for them to hug differently and didn't want to say it outright?

But Nightmare just chuckled quietly and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Dream's skull, squeezing the positive spirit a little before continuing to hold the other in a comfortable and loving hug. He was really glad that Dream had made sure that one of the rules of the game was to cuddle afterwards... As much as he kind of wanted to hide in the branches of the tree to quietly freak out about what he'd told and learned... Snuggling his beloved and calming down felt so much better.

Despite the rather intense emotional shifts that he'd experienced, Nightmare felt that this game had helped. He did feel a lot better now than he had before. He was worried that he might have burdened the other with some of what was pressing against him but... Sharing the load made it easier. He was content to snuggle his beloved for as long as Dream wanted to, and he smiled a little as he realized that the other had drifted off to sleep. How had he ever gotten so lucky? Dream could have anyone he wanted - Nightmare was well aware of the fact that any of the villagers would jump at the chance to hold Dream's metaphorical heart in their hands - but their mortal lives were so quick and fleeting, even the monsters, who tended to live longer than the humans that it would just end up hurting Dream terribly.

Perhaps it was because they'd been made to complete each other? Nightmare hoped that wasn't the case... Because that would mean that Dream had no other choice but to love him, and guilt cut through him, a keen dagger that knocked the breath from his nonexistent lungs as he held his sleeping beloved a little closer. They'd been created as dual guardians - to protect one another as well as the tree, in the hopes that they would succeed where the previous had failed when faced with a powerful and malicious enemy... And, Nightmare decided silently, it had been a little too long since the two of them had sparred. They really should try to practice more regularly - just in case someone with bad intentions did ever come to visit them.

It hadn't happened, but that was no reason to let the combat skills that the previous guardian had given them become forgotten and ill-used. Not that they were probably supposed to fight each other... Their combat styles were complimentary in nature, meant for them to work in tandem against either singular enemies or groups. But asking the villagers to participate in their sparring matches wouldn't... Probably wouldn't work out too well. They'd go too lightly on Dream - while taking the opportunity to attack himself at full strength with malicious glee.... And as tempting as it was to show Dream what the villagers could really be like when they thought that they could get away with being awful and cruel to him... He couldn't do that to his beloved.

He could just barely picture the shock and horror on Dream's face, the other fumbling and unable to properly respond in kind. His better half would freeze up and cry, moving only if one of them managed to land a solid hit on him, and then the other would likely either teleport to his side to create the shield and push them back while sobbing endless apologies at him while trying to heal the other, or try to drag the villagers away and potentially get hit with their magical attacks, which was something that Nightmare never wanted the other to experience. While sparring with one another wasn't ideal, he decided that it would be better than trying to spar with the villagers. Nightmare snuggled a little further into his beloved, pulling the cloth that they'd used to decorate the tree down so that it draped around the both of them like a blanket. Nightmare slowly drifted off to sleep, curled protectively around his better half.

[cheerynoir]

Love Makes Liars of Us All - chapter 10

The candlelight got caught up in Theon’s dark hair like starlight, and Robb’s couldn’t help but notice as he tried to write to his mother’s lady sister. His fingers itched with the urge to steal the combs and ties that bound her hair, to run his fingers through the loosened strands. There was a longing in the pit of his stomach to be the one holding onto a part of her that no one else could touch, not even the stable-boys or bards with too high aspirations. No matter how rumpled Theon looked after a romp, her hair would always remain braided and coiffed, utterly unruffled, despite her partners’ disheveled hair and clothes.

He got to touch that part of her. She didn’t allow anyone else to touch her hair or to see it out of her restricting Southern hairstyles. That was something purely between them.

Robb tried not to think about that most of the time. It only made him distracted and restless.

As if reading his mind, Grey Wind curled around Theon’s legs and rubbed around them, demanding attention. Theon scratched behind his ears even as her mouth twisted at the hair left on her leather breeches.

Robb stifled a laugh, rolling the quill between his fingers. Theon was always so vain about her clothes – if it were fine velvet or the clothes she’d stolen from Jon to train in, it never seemed to matter.

Theon noticed his attention and quirked an eyebrow in askance. She pushed her braid back behind her shoulder, the long dark rope of it falling down her back. Robb felt a whine building in his throat, but thankfully the noise was drowned out by Grey Wind’s when the action took her hand away from the petting.

He was embarrassingly grateful to have the distraction. There was enough going on without adding Theon’s ribbing to his plate.

“I know that your lady mother is also writing her own letter,” Theon smirked over her wineskin. It was not Dornish or even the Arbor Gold she’d accept in a pinch, but such luxuries were rare even for Queens during wartime. “But if your lord grandfather’s plan is to work, then you too should he lending your voice to the cause. Lady Arryn, besieged with letters full of family and honor and obligation – just think on it.”

She paused for a thoughtful sip of wine, and tossed him the skin. “Though it might be more helpful to bring up that her Lord husband probably died at the Lannisters’ hands. If revenge is a dish served cold, then it ought to be enough so share, don’t you think?”

She couldn’t say the words without a hint of mockery behind them. Robb was long used to it – so much so that he didn’t even bristle at her drawl. The only time he could recall Theon ever minding her tongue when it came to honor or family, it was in front of … of his father. With him gone – well. Robb brushed aside the thought, and tried to take comfort in a constant instead. Despite the war, despite the death, despite the blood on both their hands, Theon’s curled lip and easy sneer was something familiar and easy.

His lady mother might have despaired at Theon’s lack of taming – her vicious tongue, her wild ways, the hunger that lurked just beneath the surface – despite all her time with them, but Robb found the difference – refreshing. The Tully’s words might be Family, Duty, Honor, but Theon was a Greyjoy of Pyke, a creature of salt water and cutting japes.

Some things you could not tame, and were the richer for it.

“I’m almost done, Theon,” Robb said, after a too-long beat. “I just needed a moment, is all. After writing that letter to your Lord Father, I’m afraid I’ve tired myself out.”

“And you think you are alone in that, do you?” Theon snorted. Her hand brushed down to Grey Wind’s nape, where her caresses turned much firmer than the delicate scratching. Grey Wind nuzzled her calf in thanks, tongue lolling in pleasure.

Robb shivered and looked away. "No," he said. He raked his hands through his hair for the thousandth time that morning, noting with some displeasure how wild his curls had become. "But I'm the one who has to write another."

“Then take a walk out of this tent,” Theon grinned. “Fresh air will do you good. Wake you up some, let you talk to the men. It’s better than just staring into space.”

Into space. Of course. And if the space happened to be where she was…

Robb shook his head to clear it. Theon was right. He needed some air.

“And you? What will Her Grace be doing while I’m out and about?” Robb asked. He mustered a grin.

“Why tending to my most loyal subject, of course,” Theon said, dry. She petted the back of Grey Wind’s ears again for good measure.

Robb chuckled and left his tent to meet the biting chill of the outside world, already feeling energized by the wind cutting at his face and bringing a flush to his cheeks. They were further south than he’d ever been before, but winter was coming.

Perhaps we’re bringing it with us.

Olyvar, who had been waiting for him to emerge nearby, immediately fell into step behind him like a good squire. Robb at times wondered who was his more persistent shadow, Grey Wind or Olyvar?

Truthfully, that was the most normal bit of his walk, with the awed looks he was getting from some of his bannermen who were around his own age, or near enough it made no difference.

Such open displays made a lump of lead grow in Robb’s gut, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he had done to deserve their awe. Was it the fact that he became King so young simply through the confidence the much older Lords had in him? Was it because of the subsequent victories in the Battle of the Whispering Woods and the Battle of the Camps?

It was a good feeling, knowing that he was valued and admired for things he did by those who weren’t family or Theon. It made standing tall easier, made walking among them feel more natural. He felt more like the King they’d made of him, rather than an up-jumped Lordling.

That is, it did, until the blood in veins chilled when he heard Lord Jason Mallister up ahead, his voice carried by the brisk wind. He was with many of the other Lords, all parts of the old guard that fought in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

The disquiet in Robb thickened. His pace quickened, just a touch.

“Disgraceful, is what it is,” Lord Mallister spat. “Bad enough that Ironborn whore seduced our King into marrying her, but now she’s distracting him all day with her lewd wiles when he should be concentrating on the war.”

“All morning and still going strong all day,” the Greatjon said, with an easy laugh. “Impressive for a lad of five-and-ten.”

Lord Mallister glared at the Greatjon, “Impressive on his part, aye, but the whore shouldn’t be distracting him like this. She should’ve whelped him heirs long ago instead of trying now and putting a future heir of Winterfell in mortal danger. But then I suppose the Ironborn have their own bed-warmers who happen to wield swords as well.”

Robb’s mouth went dry and his fingers twitched at his sides. He faltered then, on the outskirts of the gaggle, unnoticed for the time being. He was close enough to see the way Lady Maege Mormont glared at Lord Mallister, though.

“Would you care to repeat that in the field, Lord Mallister?” she asked though her teeth.

As though just realizing who was sitting at his fire pit, Jason Mallister sputtered, “It’s not that, Lady Mormont. Of course the Mormont women are as fierce as any man and their contributions are always appreciated. But you of all people should know how untrustworthy she it. Her people have raided your coastlines since they crawled out of the sea, they’ve stolen your women and killed your people. This is an Ironborn hostage we speak of. How could such a woman be trusted out on the field, much less with a babe in her belly? And who knows what strange ideas she’s whispering to His Grace—”

Robb was dimly aware of a pain in his hands where his fists were clenched. There was dull roaring in his ears. There was a bonfire in his chest and he couldn’t get a deep breath without fanning the flames. For a moment, there was nothing in him but that fire and the urge to lash out – but good sense pressed in on him. The facts lined up and marched through his head in a half-second:

These were respected lords with considerable personal armies in their own rights. By the looks of it, the men gathered agreed with Lord Mallister: his choice in bride was not a welcomed one. They followed him, but this southern push was fragile – he could not win a war on his own. They thought Theon was with child, and stubborn enough to stay with him despite it. They had a point.

But Mallister was disrespecting Theon.

There was a snarl trapped in his chest and a slight that demanded blood. Robb wanted, just for an instant, to strike the man who dared—

“Lord Mallister,” Robb heard himself call, cool and easy. He couldn’t do any of that, he knew. He was a King, not a green boy with a silly infatuation with a girl. Theon was not his wife, not in truth, and she could fight her own battles. But this would not stand. “Your Queen will be departing for the Iron Islands soon and so she will require an escort.”

And hadn’t that been a chore? Theon was adamant on going alone, insisting that the presence of Northmen in her father’s domain would just muddy the waters and make everything unnecessarily tense. Robb had argued that, as a Queen, she should have at least a small contingent with her, otherwise how would that look? As though he didn’t care for his own wife’s safety, that’s how, and that sort of insult would be worse in the long run.

They had argued long and hard, thankfully muffled inside the tent and kept at hisses and never reaching to yelling levels, and in the end Robb won – to a point. Concessions had been made: a small host, rather than a garrison, would accompany Theon to the isles.

Robb pressed on without giving Mallister a chance to protest or for the other men to speak up. The words grew teeth and bit where Robb could not, hard with the chill of command. “She needs to secure ships from her father, and she goes on my behalf. Patrek would be perfect to head this mission due to his strength and his impeccable diplomacy.”

The man was friendly with Theon and had never uttered the word “squid” around her, as far as Robb knew. He would certainly trust Theon’s wellbeing with him sooner than with his father. Besides, perhaps some distance between father and son was needed.

Robb inclined his head at his bannerman, and offered a smile that barely quirked his lips. “Tell Patrek to prepare for a long journey, if you would, Lord Mallister.” "Yes, Your Grace. If it please you."

He turned on his heel and walked away, then. He had a letter to finish.

--

Hoster Tully regarded the neat letters Robb, his Lady Mother, his Lord Uncle, and the Blackfish had written to Lady Arryn. All of them were a variation of a call to aid, a reminder that Lannisters killed her husband, and sentimental pleads that family was of the utmost importance. The same words all penned in different hands. Perhaps it would be enough.

Robb scanned the pile for his grandfather’s contribution, but as cluttered as the desk was with maps and papers, no fifth letter revealed itself. Disquiet ran cool fingers across the back of his neck.

“So you are sending young Patrek Mallister to escort your wife,” his grandfather paused at “wife” as though he didn’t know what to do with such a title. Robb willed himself not to bristle, with minimal success. If his grandfather noticed, he didn’t let on. “Any others?”

“Perhaps Wendel Manderly and some of his men—”

“That might not be wise,” his lady mother interrupted him, her lips in that disapproving frown she’d sport whenever someone mentioned Theon. “Regardless of Balon Greyjoy’s… current cooperation with the other kingdoms, there is still a risk in only bringing the younger lords without the benefit of the old guard who fought in the rebellion.”

Robb stilled. Send the older bannermen? The same ones that spent their free time reliving their glory days and comparing the number of Ironborn they’d killed? Robb kept his face blank and just cast his mother a look, sharp and searching.

“Won’t that simply make things worse, Mother?”

“How could it? Things are already tense. At least this way, she will have protection and no one can say we do not protect our own.”

“I take it you have suggestions for who to send, then?” asked the Blackfish gruffly.

“Lady Mormont,” said Catelyn at once. “Robb, Maege commands her men, but she has daughters that could direct their numbers in her absence, Lyra perhaps. To send Dacey on this mission and take her from your van would be a waste. Lady Maege knows the Ironborn, she knows what to expect if things go poorly, but she has weathered enough negotiations to know when words are needed rather than a sword.”

Experience, Robb knew, Patrek Mallister did not have.

By the Old Gods and the New. Robb raked his fingers through his hair and bit back a sigh. He’d fought with Theon before, but this would be a trial. Mallister he would be able to get her to accept – she liked Patrek, as far as he could tell. But having her accept the old guard – those that had quashed her father’s rebellion?

It’d be easier to teach Grey Wind swordplay.

Theon might not say anything about the selection, but she would be tense around them. Distracted. Waiting for a pointed remark or a muttered slur, rather than preparing for the meeting with her Lord Father. That would hardly do any of them any good.

“Yes, now that that’s been dealt with,” his grandfather said. “What is to be done about Tywin Lannister and Harrenhal?”

“We’ve lost the element of surprise now,” Robb said, frowning. “Although we have the Kingslayer as a hostage, there’s no guarantee that we can get the upper hand back through negotiations.”

“We might want to hold on to him and wait to negotiate for your sisters’ release,” said the Blackfish.

Robb studied the table for a long moment, his stomach twisting. This was bigger than his sisters – a Kingship told him as much, as much as it made the bile rise in his throat at the thought.

“That being said, Lord Tywin is not the Kingslayer. He will not rush in heedless. He will wait patiently for Ser Stafford to march before he stirs from behind the walls of Harrenhal,” his lord grandfather said.

“Unless…” his mother said.

“Yes?” the Blackfish prompted.

“Unless he must leave Harrenhal,” she said, “to face some other threat.”

The Blackfish looked at her thoughtfully. The corners of his mouth quirked in a faint, sharp smile. “Lord Renly,” he said.

“King Renly,” Catelyn corrected, wry.

Robb swallowed a laugh that bubbled up his throat, caught the sound behind his teeth and clenched his jaw to keep quiet. For a long moment, he stared intently down at the table and the scattering of letters. It was funny, the way the Gods moved sometimes.

And here he was wondering how he could bring up an alliance with Renly without explaining that Theon had given him the idea.

--

Theon stared him down, knuckles turning white from gripping her own crossed arms. Her mouth was a thin, bloodless line and her expression was perfectly smooth.

It wasn’t often that Theon reminded him of Sansa, but in that moment, all Robb see when he looked at her was his sister, prim and proper and self-contained. Robb looked away and pressed a clenched fist to his chest, like that would smother the ache he felt.

He swallowed and forced himself to look back.

“Theon,” Robb sighed. He raked his fingers through his hair, “I know that you would feel more comfortable not having anyone who was involved in the Rebellion—”

“Comfort?” Theon scoffed, “Robb, my comfort is the least of our problems. Do you know what happened the last time a Northern Lord stepped foot on Pyke? They burned it to the ground, and the Iron Fleet with it.”

Robb opened his mouth and then shut it. He had no answer to that. In truth, he hadn’t even thought in those terms. Why had his lady mother suggested it when that was the first thing to come to mind?

“Fuck,” Theon slumped into the bedding furs, foregoing the chair. She put her hands over her face. “And your lady mother won’t budge from this?”

“No. And neither will I,” Robb shook his head. He looked at her for a long moment, fidgeting, before he forced himself to sit beside her. It wasn’t improper, he told himself. They were married – or they may as well have been, in the eyes of the camp. And his intentions were good; he only meant to comfort her. “And she is right that sending such a small escort without sending in my most experienced bannermen could also be construed as an insult.”

“Except that your best and most experienced all had a hand in quelling my father’s rebellion,” Theon said, muffled. “Fuck.”

Robb looked down at his hands, clenched tightly again his knees. Theon swore like men drank – often, and with vigor. He’d heard her curse for so long it was a wonder her vocabulary hadn’t worn off on him. She said before that her father’s halls had been filled with sailors and captains, all with mouths worse than hers.

He doubted a weather-beaten raider could make a curse sound half as good.

Slowly, Robb leaned into her side, seeking comfort. His face burned with the shame of it – in wanting to be held, in wanting a moment of respite, in realizing his own incompetence. Was he not a King? Should he not be the one who had the answers and the best strategies? So far, it was his lady mother, his lord grandfather, and Theon who made all the diplomatic decisions.

Perhaps he was only good for tactics. For battles and war, the spill of blood and the sound of steel singing as it struck its brother.

The thought made him sick.

Robb shut his eyes and breathing deeply, trying to empty his mind of it all.

The tent was quiet, the sounds of camp muffled. The fire crackled, and far-off there was a shout.

“Asha and I,” Theon said after the quiet had settled like a shroud. “We’re the last.”

She leaned into him as well, a cool hand against his nape. They lay close enough to share air – close enough for Robb to know that while Theon smelled as sweaty and road-worn as everyone else, she hid it under marjoram oil. It was an earthy, green smell that soothed him, despite its newness; Theon usually favoured sweeter, more flowery scents – crocus or hyacinth. It was a vain and wasteful habit, some would say, but one that suited Theon perfectly, even now. Stubbornly maintaining her habits until the bitter end. Robb bit back a smile and turned his face into her stomach minutely.

“Rodrik and Maron were supposed to,” Theon paused, drifting between words like a raft caught in the current. She never talked about her departed brothers. If it weren’t for the records of the Rebellion, Robb never would have known she had brothers; that was how little she talked of them or her sister. “They were supposed to compete over who would be worthy of the Seastone Chair. The one who didn’t gain it would become the Lord of Harlaw.”

Robb shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at her. Theon had a glassy look to her, her eyes unfocused and her lips parted and damp, as though she wasn’t seeing what was before her but far, far off. Robb grabbed her hand and laced their fingers together, to anchor her and keep her where she was. He felt as though he’d swallowed a stone and couldn’t say why.

Something moved at the corner of his eye and Robb jerked, hand going to a dagger and finding air. He was grateful for it. Grey Wind curled up around his preferred spot at Theon’s feet. His paw almost territorially planted near her calf, his head laid on her shins. Robb sighed.

“They’re not here anymore, so,” Theon said. She sounded sharper – more awake. Her smirk flickered across her mouth, familiar and warm. “So it falls to Asha and I. I might become the next Lady of Harlaw now, I’ve not heard any word of Uncle Rodrik or Aunt Gwynesse marrying or gaining any rock spouses. So Harlaw still needs an heir. He has to listen to me for that alone. And… and I am his daughter, come home after a decade. He will be glad to see how I’ve thrived. We can make this work. He will be glad to see me.”

Theon turned her head to look up at him from where her cheek pressed against the furs. The firelight glowed against her skin and caught like embers in her hair. Robb couldn’t breathe for a moment, there was a fist squeezing his heart. Her smirk, her flinty eyes, the dark tangled silk of her hair –

He’d had her in his arms a handful of days ago – had her in his lap with her mouth against his and his hands in her hair and her hands shoving at his breeches until he keened in the back of his throat like something wounded and wanting – and how had he ever forgotten?

Robb’s arms wanted to buckle. His mouth was dry and there was a heat low in his belly and a sudden cold clarity in his brain.

Oh.

His mouth opened on its own accord, but Theon beat him to it, grinning now. Triumphant.

“We’ll have our fleet, Robb. I promise.”

[mimik-u]

Flower Child, Chapter 10, “Steven”

A/N:

Hi, friends.

I'm incredibly sorry about this long hiatus. Inspiration just... flagged, and it was hard for me to pick this fic back up after days and days of, well, not picking it up.

That being said, I still appreciate every kind word and every Kudos on this fic... and I promise, come hell or high water, I will finish "Flower Child" one day. <3

AO3

—

It was the heat, he tried to tell Pearl as she frantically worked to revive him on the wooden floor, but the words were jumbled on his tongue, stew. Steven could barely keep his eyes open, could only dimly make out her face in the darkness—pale, dripping with her tears, terrified.

“Steven!” she cried, her spidery fingers crawling across his face, his neck, his chest. The sensation was vaguely unpleasant. “Steven!”

It was the heat, Amethyst! I’m fine! I’m fine! Please don’t cry. But the gurgling and the bile percolating like acid in the back of his throat would not assume the form of these words. When he turned his head to the side, he could just make out her bare feet stumbling over one another, her apologies coming in hiccups.

“I-I’m sorry, Steven! I’m sorry! I-I just opened the window so he could hear, and—”

Pearl’s hands suddenly stopped on his chest, her sharp features turning to stone.

“You what now?”

“I-I opened the window, Pearl! He wanted to know what was going on. He had the right to know!”

“It wasn’t your right to make that call,” she snarled, her fingers twisting tightly into his shirt. “Now look at him! He’s—”

I’m fine! As he tried to speak, bile trickled out of the side of his mouth in a thin line. With a tenderness that did not befit the scary expression on her face, Pearl lifted his head gently, so he cough the phlegm out. His face was streaked with it. He was limp in her arms, a rag doll.

“Get it all out,” she whispered, her thumb brushing his burning cheek. “Shh, shh”—for he tried to talk again—“I’m here.”

“Hello, 911?! Yes, yes, this is Greg Universe. My son’s in renal failure, and he just suddenly collapsed, a-and we need to get an ambulance out here immediately…”

“Amethyst, make yourself useful and go get our overnight bags. We won’t all be able to fit in the ambulance.”

It’s not her fault, Pearl—please.

“Yes, we live at…”

“Garnet, can you call Dr. Maheswaran? She’ll… she’ll want to meet us up there.”

“Pearl,” Steven moaned, grasping feebly at her silky pajama shirt. Darkness was closing in on him quickly now, weighing down his chest, his legs, his arms. He clung tight to what he had. His hands looked as distant to him as the stars. The bruises on his arms were little blue nebulas, burning and blurring in equal turns.

Pearl’s head snapped down in an instant.

Her touch was soft, gentle, warm—and he was so cold, freezing.

When did it get so cold in here?

“I… I…” 

She tried to shush him again.

“Shh, save your strength—an ambulance is on the way.” 

But he wouldn’t be deterred.

His grip loosened, but his words did, too, all of his consonants and vowels slurred with sickness as they tumbled out of his mouth.

“I don’t wanna go to the hospital.”

All those needles and machines.

Poking and prodding and taking something out of him.

At that very moment, he couldn’t quite recall what they did for him.

Pearl’s breath hitched in her throat, but she never stopped dragging her thumb across the side of his face. She was insistent in her touch, almost feverish, perhaps trying to assure herself of his pulse.

“I know you don’t. I know,” she choked out, “but you have to, Steven. It’s the only way.”

He’s heard this one before—time and time again.

Maybe he even believed it to be true.

Laying in Pearl's arms, he couldn't remember if he did.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered.

It was a child’s prayer.

It was an admission.

Pearl’s eyes were wide, pale moons above him, leaking.

“I know, but you have to stay awake, please—at least until the ambulance gets here, okay?”

He swallowed thickly.

He could give her that at least.

“O-okay.”

But as much as he would have liked to stay, Steven fell away from consciousness in the way that stars fell away from the sky.

Like confetti, drifting.

—

If Steven dreamed of anything as he was being transported to the hospital, he dreamed of darkness. 

He dreamed that he closed his eyes and never opened them again, his world full of blackness, devoid of any light. He dreamed that he was at his own funeral, and Pearl’s long fingers shook on top of his still chest as she attempted to straighten his little bow tie. Amethyst was crying, and Garnet was crying, and Dad was, too, his red face hidden beneath his big, calloused hands as he sobbed. He dreamed that Lapis buried her nose into Peridot’s neck and that Dr. Maheswaran gripped Connie’s shoulders as Connie gripped her thick copy of My Unfamiliar Familiar. Her little straw wrapper bookmark poked out between the pages he would never get to hear now.

They’d stopped on a cliffhanger.

Her eyes soft, her smile bright, she had promised to read him more.

He dreamed that Blue Diamond sat in the front row, her silvery hair falling across her shoulder in a thick plait.

She was wearing that silky bathrobe of hers.

She twirled a pink hibiscus flower between her fingers as a lone tear slipped down her face and collected on her pointed chin.

Steven dreamed that he was dead...

... and then he woke up.

It was dark when he opened his eyes, not in the way his dream was dark, but dark in the way nights usually were—as though the promise of day just lurked around the corner. As his vision adjusted, he discerned that he was in a hospital room, the lights off, the TV on, a square of orange light slanting in through the crack in the doorway. His entire body was heavy, as though it was weighed down with insistent hands instead of blankets. He tried to wriggle his own hand but found that it was encumbered with wires and tubing.

“Ugh,” he groaned into the darkness, subsequently discovering that his mouth was rather dry.

(Not that he liked to curse, but without a doubt, Steven felt like... poop.)

“Steven?” The mass at the foot of his bed that he originally took to be a pile of blankets suddenly shifted and said his name, which, of course, would have terrified him witless if the light wash from the TV hadn’t happen to flicker across the silhouette at just the right moment. 

It was Pearl, and her features were devastated with relief.

“Steven!” She stumbled out of the chair where she’d been sitting and fell next to his head, her lanky arms encircling his neck in such a studiously gentle way that he instantly knew that she wished she could hold him tightly. She was still in her pajamas, he realized with a jolt. Silk brushed against his neck and all of the wires protruding out of it.

He didn’t dare tell her that he was a little sore there, didn’t dare hurt her just a tiny concession to his own sickness more, but fortunately enough, she fell back on her own accord, pressing her elbows into the mattress.

“That’s my name,” he joked feebly, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a tired smile. “Don’t wear it out.”

She laughed incredulously, tears glinting in her big eyes, but she wiped at these quickly, her mouth wobbling to keep its smile.

“Silly boy.”

“You know it.” 

Steven grinned at her.

(His teeth were like concrete, aching.)

She tried to grin back.

(And that was something, an improvement, at least, on her tears.)

He glanced up at the TV then, squinting to make out the time stamped on the corner of a generic weather channel. It was almost 3AM... he’d passed out around ten if he had to guess.

So much time unaccounted for.

His gaze trailed down to his right arm where a thick tube was laden with some kind of crimson liquid—blood, he realized too many seconds too late. Pearl’s eyes followed his, and her tentative smile collapsed on itself like a balancing act gone wrong. She reached out and laid her hand on his left arm, which was considerably less machinated than the right.

She was so... warm... and he was so... cold. 

“Your hemoglobin dropped to a dangerous level,” she explained quietly. “Dr. Maheswaran had no choice but to transfuse you.”

“Oh,” he said. He couldn’t quite draw himself away from the sight. “I... I guess that’s okay. I mean... we knew this was a possibility, right?”

It was a poor man’s optimism, but it was all Steven had in him right now. Pearl’s gaze dropped from the crimson tube to the place where their arms were meeting. Studiously, she began rubbing rhythmic circles into the back of his hand.

“Steven...” He barely heard her. Even the distant hum and buzz from the outside hallway was louder. Someone was tired of working night shifts, and someone needed a mop bucket in Room 11037—stat—and someone was sitting by his bedside, staring at him as though he was already a ghost.

He looked away, eyes flicking upwards towards the ceiling to abate the burning that had suddenly risen in them. 

“Just tell me, Pearl... please,” he whispered to the light fixture. “Rip off the bandaid.”

I can take it.

I’ve taken everything else already.

“I… I don’t know if I…”

“Pearl.”

“You’re very sick, sweetheart.” She flinched as she said it; she couldn’t believe it for herself.

“I know.”

He had known for awhile now.

For days, weeks, months.

Tell me something I don’t know, Pearl. 

Pearl’s fingers stilled on his hand.

“Dr. Maheswaran wants to keep you here for… for a little while longer.”

He did not skip a beat.

“How long?” (He did not skip a beat, and yet, he was smart, clever—he already knew the answer before it left her mouth.)

She was silent again, agonized, her eyes screwed up against the truth.

Don’t make me say it, the expression said.

With his furrowed brow and grim mouth, he shot back, Why not?

“Pearl… please.”

“Steven—”

“Please," he croaked.

She opened her bright blue eyes; it looked as though it cost her to do so.

“… until we find you another kidney.”

The if was implicit.

—

They unhooked him from the transfusion machine around five, and he fell asleep shortly afterwards, Pearl’s trembling lower lip the last sight his dark eyes lit upon before they succumbed to the utter exhaustion in his body. If Steven dreamed of anything in that lonely hospital room, he dreamed of darkness. He dreamed that he died in the hospital, that he slipped away one night when everyone else was asleep. He was alone, and the white walls were so cold, so sterile. His monitor flatlined, the insistent beeping noise shrilling across the line of his vision like a premonition, a ghost. A scream of discovery dribbled down the air. 

Amethyst, he guessed wildly. Or was it Garnet? Pearl? Dad?!

Was it all of them at once?

The sound was agony.

Inhuman.

Steven woke with a start, gasping heavily. The heart monitor whirred in time with his panic, beating a frantic, insistent tattoo.

“Hey, hey, hey—breathe, kiddo!” Where there were once empty ceiling tiles, Dad’s face appeared above him, his bushy brow furrowed in concern, eyes wide with the anxiety he usually tried so hard to hide. He placed a big hand on Steven’s chest in an attempt to regulate his breathing. “Yeah, that’s it, buddy. In and out! In and out.”

In and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Steven feebly brought his left arm up, up, up... and let it fall against his dad’s as his chest rose and stumbled in short, staccato bursts. His head was light; the touch almost grounded him.

In and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In and out.

Inhale.

His fingers curled weakly against his father’s forearm.

Exhale.

Dad's eyes were the color of driftwood, burning bright.

When he could finally catch his breath, Steven did not use it to speak; rather, he closed his eyes, exhausted from even the simple act of trying to breathe. Were his dad not hovering above him, there was a good chance that he’d just pass out again—slip into the familiar nothingness that slipped into nightmares—but slowly, painstakingly, he made himself unclose his eyes.

“Sorry,” he rasped. The gray light pouring in from the window stung him. He tried to focus on his dad’s face, but everything was blurred, fuzzy around the edges. “Nightmare.”

Dad brought his hand from Steven’s chest to his head, resting his palm on top of his curly, black hair. Relief made him look ten years younger, ten years less sad, but the wetness around the corners of his eyes told a different story.

“No apologies needed, champ,” he sighed, a weak smile rippling across his mouth. “I’m just glad you’re”—he hesitated slightly—“okay.”

Of course, okay was not the right word.

Steven tried to return the smile anyway.

(It fell flat in his eyes.)

At that precise moment, though, he was spared from being caught out as Dr. Maheswaran burst through the door, looking, for all intents and purposes, harried. Her salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a haphazard ponytail, and the usual lines under her eyes seemed harsher, as though someone had run through them with a Sharpie.

“Your heart,” she said gruffly by way of greeting. She barely threw either of them a glance as she proceeded over to the monitor mounted on the wall, arms crossed firmly over her chest as she studied it intensely. “What was wrong with it?”

“Nightmare,” Steven explained again. 

“He couldn’t catch his breath,” Dad elaborated further, finally removing his hand from Steven’s curls. “Think he might need oxygen?”

Dr. M pressed a few buttons on the monitor as she nodded tersely.

“Precisely, Universe. Looks like he’s not getting enough oxygen while he sleeps. I’ll get a nurse to come set him up shortly.”

She then swooped down, in a manner vaguely if not exactly hawklike, and briefly looked at the catheter bag poking out beneath Steven’s many blanket layers. It was amazing he hadn’t woken up for that ordeal; when he was conscious, it was rather uncomfortable to say the least.

“Not as much as I’d like,” she murmured, seemingly to herself, “but I suppose that’s to be expected.”

And with that bleak assessment, she straightened back into a standing position, her brown eyes lighting upon Steven properly for the first time. 

Looking closely, and knowing where to look, he observed that all of the hardness in them had seemed to melt, like liquid. 

For that was the thing about Dr. Maheswaran—she was all bite and no bark—not so much of a conundrum as she was a Russian nesting doll, hiding oh-so-many layers. Her hardened facade was one, and here was another; he could see it in even the way she held her shoulders back, like she was holding something else back in the posture, too.

Something soft.

Something vulnerable.

“I’m glad to see your eyes open,” she said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her lab coat.  “You scared me for a little while there.”

And maybe he had; her entire appearance certainly attested to it.

“You—scared?” But he'd try to make this old grizzly bear smile anyway; that was his wont. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it, Steven.” Her lips just barely twitched. (He’d take it.) “When Garnet called, I just threw my lab coat over my pajamas and hightailed it up here.” She jerked a thumb over towards his dad. “Greg was there. He can tell you.”

Dad chuckled gamely, lowering himself back into the chair next to Steven’s bed. 

“Yup—she got you stabilized all while wearing a onesie.”

“It was a matching two-piece,” she corrected him, “but I digress.”

Steven laughed—how could he not at such a ridiculous image?—but even that proved to be too much on his poor chest. He winced involuntarily, and to his chagrin, the monitor called him out on it, stuttering as he did. Dr. Maheswaran and Dad both collapsed into their former sobrieties as quickly as they had tentatively shed them—stretched rubber bands recoiling.

“I’m going to find a nurse to set up your oxygen,” the nephrologist said suddenly, terse as she ever was but trying too hard to be so. “Universe.” She nodded awkwardly at Dad. “Steven.” Her incisive gaze settled on him for a brief moment before she turned away; he felt pierced through, like an x-ray.

And then she left—(fled)—her white lab coat flaring behind her as she stepped out of the open door. Dad stared at the place her back had been for only a short second more before shaking his head and returning his slow, somber gaze to Steven. There were bags under his eyes, gray whiskers in his beard.

“She was torn up last night,” he murmured, and then, as though it was an afterthought, added, “We all were.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” It was all he could say. As much as the wires crisscrossing his torso would allow, Steven tilted his head on the pillow, so he could see his dad more easily. The man’s hands were on his lap, limply pointing to the tiled floor.

“S’not your fault, kiddo,” came the mumbled reply.

They were silent then.

It was a small comfort, but Steven’s heart monitor carried on.

—

By eight that morning, the sun was fully peeking out—warm and arresting, falling upon his swarm of blankets in little golden dapples. Steven watched these as the nurse slid the oxygenated cannulas around his ears and into each of his nostrils, and then he watched them some more as she changed out his catheter bag. She hmphed at the less than satisfactory output in the very way Dr. Maheswaran had.

Around nine, his dad left to go find them some breakfast other than the mush that the cafeteria offered, and Garnet came in soon afterwards, her bicolored eyes still edged with the dregs of recent sleep. Attached to the hospital was a hotel that visitors could stay in while they were visiting patients, and only earlier that morning, Dad had made Pearl go join the others for a few hours of shuteye as only one guardian had been allowed to stay with him while he was still being transfused.

Garnet stepped in uncertainly, her discomfort scribbled all across her person in what could have very well been neon for all of her usual subtlety. She wrung her hands in a clear betrayal of the stoicism she espoused on a day to day basis, and she stared at him for what seemed like a long time before she crossed the room and placed her warm palm on his forehead, smoothing away a few of his stray curls. She’d never particularly cared for hospitals, but even still, every time Steven landed in one, she came and stayed anyway.

She was steady like that.

Constant.

“Garnet!” He exclaimed as she patted him.

“Hello, Steven,” she rumbled, her voice rich and soft. (She tended to be the very same.) “How’s my little fighter doing?”

It was a running joke between them. Ever since he’d been small, Garnet had taken him up to the gym from time to time to help her “train” her various clients. This practice ultimately amounted to Steven taking a few concerted shots at a punching bag while his guardian awarded him with a silent thumbs up each time that he did. 

You’re a fighter in a whole different way now, she once told him after the diagnosis. Her square chin laying atop of his head, she whispered it into his hair. Keep fighting. Please, Steven.

“Still fighting.” His smile was like a bruise, but it was a smile nonetheless. “But I guess I’m a little worse for wear.”

She was quiet as she absorbed the notion, her gaze flitting from his oxygen cannulas to the multitude of wires springing like roots from his chest—finally landing upon the couple of tubes snaking in and around his arms, red spots already popping up around the injection sites—promises of later contusions. 

Garnet brushed her thumb across his forehead one last time before letting go and collapsing backwards into the chair next to his bed in what was more or less defeat.

“Mm, yeah.”

She looked down, her broad shoulders caved in on themselves, fingers templed and fallen between her lap.

That was another thing about Garnet.

She was present—always, without fail—but she could be so very distant at precisely the same time.

Usually, Steven took it upon himself to bring her back, his hand reaching for her hand, his smile a loud invitation home.

Sometimes, he failed.

“Garnet?”

“... yes, Steven?”

And sometimes, he did not.

“Will you come lay down with me?” It was a familiar question, one he asked every time he had a bad nightmare, or every time he landed in a hospital to live through another. In answer, Garnet would curl around his body, her warm arms holding him close.

She’d tell him stories.

She’d hum him to sleep.

She'd be there for him.

And never, would she ever let go.

She stared at him painfully now—well, not him so much as all of the machines that currently swarmed and intruded him. The oxygen filtering in through his nostrils tickled his nose.

“Please?” He intercepted her rational protestations long before she could lay them out with all of her usual practicality. “We can move all this stuff aside—just like before.”

A long pause, long enough that the hum from the outside hallway filled the gap. 

Garnet rubbed the heels of her hands against her legs, pulling them back and forth as she mulled the request over.

“Okay,” she finally whispered.

“Okay.”

—

In Garnet’s arms, he slept soundly for the first time since he’d arrived at the hospital.

She was conscientious of every wire, every tube, letting them drift over her shoulder like rivers.

—

One nightmareless hour later, Steven picked feebly at his breakfast to the chagrin of the motley audience who had come to watch him do it: Garnet (still tucked next to him, propping her head upon her fist and her elbow upon the pillow), Pearl, his dad, and Dr. Maheswaran. Amethyst was… missing in action.

(“Last night rattled her,” Garnet murmured in answer to his ensuing question. “She didn’t sleep well.” Pearl was close enough to hear. She shifted uncomfortably where she stood, crossing her arms over her chest.)

“C’mon, buddy,” Dad encouraged, his beard lightly frosted with the yogurt parfait he’d gotten from McDonald’s. “Just another bite.”

Steven stared into the mostly full cup of his own yogurt and tried to envision himself picking up his plastic spoon and shoving another scoop into his mouth. Upon waking up from his nap with Garnet, his stomach had felt full, bloated, as though he’d already eaten a full course dinner. 

It was just another symptom in a long litany of many.

Loss of appetite.

Something, something about cytokines, Dr. Maheswaran had wearily explained.

“Maybe later?” He shoved the yogurt backwards on the hospital tray lofted to his height. “Sorry—I’m just not hungry right now.”

He could feel Garnet’s frown better than he could see it at the angle he was laying. It leaned quietly against his shoulder; it worried for him.

He tried to ignore it as best as he could.

“Dad, do you have my phone?”

“Yeah, yeah… it’s in my pocket…”

In the corner of the room, Pearl and Dr. Maheswaran were having a conversation that they believed to be softly spoken.

“UNOS just got his blood work,” Dr. M said. “They’ve moved him up significantly on the list.”

As his dad passed him his phone, Steven worked to listen to what the two were saying, which became increasingly hard as the TV played some stupid jingle about vacuum cleaners, and as Garnet asked Dad about who was taking care of the cats.

Pearl murmured something that he couldn’t quite catch, but her thin mouth floated upwards into a weak smile that collapsed just as quickly as she seemed to realize something.

“But… but what does that say about him, how he's doing?"

Dr. Maheswaran simply shook her head.

Steven's phone buzzed in his hand before he had time to glean any kind of meaning from this tilt of the doctor's head to the shadows in the planes of Pearl's skinny face.

He looked down to see who’d texted him, surprised to find that he had more than a couple of missed messages.

(And, like, thirty notifications from Candy Crush.)

Sunday, 12:09 AM

Group name: Dork Squad

Peridot: Don’t give up, Steven.

Lapis: we’ll kick your ass if you do

Peridot: Yeah, what she said.

Peridot: Text us when you can.

Sunday, 8:24 AM

Connie: Hi, Steven. Mom told me that you were sick. Are you okay? Can I come visit you soon?

Sunday, 10:17 AM

Blue Diamond: Hello, Steven… I drank tea on the balcony this morning and, strangely enough, came to think of you. You would have loved the skyline, I think—all of its many colors. Pink, gold, and blue. 

Blue Diamond: But enough about me—have you been well?

At this last message, Steven's chapped lips tilted upwards into a smile, or at the very least, the suggestion of one.

He began to type.

—

Sunday, 10:20 AM

Group Name: Dork Squad

Steven: Hi, guys. Please don’t kick me. :)

Lapis: steven!!!!!

Peridot: STEVEn!

Peridot: You're not dead!

“If we can get him to eat,” Dr. Maheswaran shrugged, “that’d be great, but if we can’t, then we’ll need to resort to something more proactive… a feeding tube, another intravenous line maybe.”

As Pearl opened her mouth to protest, the nephrologist cut across her in a manner that was both curt yet kind.

“I know it seems soon. Hell,” she laughed bitterly, “it seems soon to me… but Steven can take it, Pearl. I’m sure of it.”

If her words were surprising, her next gesture was staggering.

She lifted one of her lined hands and placed it firmly on Pearl's arm.

And to Steven's continued amazement, she squeezed.

Seemingly in spite of herself, Pearl appeared to unbend—just a little, just enough—a wry smile appearing at one corner of her mouth.

“Be careful Priyanka,” she teased. “You're verging on sentiment."

“Oh, shush.”

Sunday, 10:22 AM

Steven: Hi, Connie! Your mom’s in here right now.

“Dr. M, I’m texting Connie! Have anything you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her to tell you that you need to eat more,” Dr. Maheswaran quipped before returning to talk to Pearl.

Steven: She said hi. Come visit me when you can… I’m going to need the company. Bring the book!!

Sunday, 10:27 AM

Hi, Blue, he typed and re-typed into the box. His other well-wishers knew the state he was in, knew where he was and why he was there; Blue Diamond did not. He ate her chocolate cakes and puked them up in her gold inlaid toilet minutes later.

He hadn't told her this.

Didn’t even tell Amethyst.

What could he say?

What did he even want to say?

Hi, Blue. I hope you're doing great! Me? I’m in the hospital on the verge of dying.

No, no, too direct.

Hi, Blue. I’m doing well. How about you?

And that one was both deflective and a lie.

She didn't care much for lying, he knew.

Oh, my boy, she murmured once upon a time, her smile sad, her eyes soft, it’s been a very long time since I’ve been me… and yet, here you are, completely, unrepentantly you.

Completely and unrepentantly, he was Steven Universe... and he wasn't... wasn't doing great.

But he wanted to be.

And that made up for some of the difference.

Hi, Blue, he typed again, his mouth set in a resolute line.

He’d tell her the truth.

Steven: Hi, Blue… that sounds really cool. I wish I could have been there to see it.

Steven: But I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news. :/ I passed out last night and, well, had to go to the hospital. Still here this morning.

Steven: Please don’t worry!

He added as a hurried afterthought.

Steven: I hope you’re doing well!

“Are you feeling okay?” Garnet whispered into his ear. She’d been watching him closely, had been skimming her long fingers up and down his arm, so that he could feel something other than his own coldness. “You look sad.”

He hesitated to respond to her, didn't want to tip off everyone else in the room.

His loss of appetite was one symptom, and his sadness was another.

And it was contagious that one.

Infectious.

So he only nodded.

Garnet, if possible, held him even closer.

Sunday, 11:13 AM

Steven: Hi, Amethyst. 

Steven: I miss you.

Steven: Come see me when you can?

I'm okay, he backspaced. 

Promise. He deleted that unkeepable word, too.

He texted her later than he did the others because suddenly, without warning, he had begun to spew up yogurt.

[adara-of-the-flame]

the-name-is-hoggle

Riff Raff.

Hardly the worst thing Hoggle had been called before. Not exactly wrong either, in his personal case. In his mind, anyway. All the same, he gives a scowl and waves away the version of the fox lady that was giving him a sniff. From the onset it was obvious there was more some sort of “duplication” magic going on than it just being a group of perfectly identical and in synch fox women… which wasn’t also an impossibility with fae but-

“Rrrrr-oh-?!”

Before Sir Didymus could do much more than growl in response to the insulting kitsune, did what looked like a winged torso make a grand entrance…or attempted to…. Literally. It was just a hairy body with some limbs and feathery wings. Nothing else.

Hoggle furrowed his brows at the singular sight, but didn’t outwardly comment. Just happy that it’s intrusion broke up the heat of the moment. Revealing that the “army” that had surrounded them was really just one - rather skilled- fae guard. Her interaction with the creature - Dumpling? - also reminded the dwarf of when Sir Didymus interacted with his coward of a mount Ambrosius. Whom Hoggle was glad had been left behind on this venture, for obvious reasons.

The mood shifts once more when that voice calls out, obviously belonging to the owner of the place. The King of the realm…Hoggle freezes in place, blinking like a surprised owl, while Sir Didymus stands at attention with an ear to ear grin. Though his eyes strangely held a sadness..?

“We are here, your Majesty! Glad to have audience with you!”

He calls out loudly, very loudly, in the direction Yumika was speaking to. The terrier immediately walking ahead as if he perfectly knew the way- and he did. He’d traveled down the same path many times to the Glade on much better days, at much happier times.

Hoggle swallowed down a sudden lump to the throat as he reluctantly followed behind, not wanting to go ahead but also not wanting to stay behind in the sorrowful land. His hands kept fidgeting in nervousness, and he settled for just clenching them to make it stop.

None of them noticed the small glass ball trailing a ways behind, silently rolling along in the background and never losing sight of the party…

What was that in the leaves? Dumpling, who didn’t have eyes, thought he ‘sensed’ something behind them...but, quickly harkened to his partner’s annoyed call, and bounded after the group.

“Um....” Mars mumbled awkwardly to the kitsune. “I know you’re a fox, but what is that other guy? Why does he look like a wonton with legs?”

“Weh!”

“Dumpling says ‘wontons actually are made to look like him.’ He’s a Hundun.” Yumika grumbled, obviously frustrated with the current turn of events.

“Okay...So, how does he eat? Or, do, y’know, anything with no holes?”

“...Weh?”

“Dumpling wants to know how you keep all your body parts from falling out with all the holes you got in your body.”

“...Oh.” Fae logic. This was a fantasy land, the half-Urru would have to remember. ‘Normal’ rules didn’t always apply here.

The group turned the corner at what was once labeled as a ‘Concession Stand’ into an impressive, open space. Maybe it was once beautiful, full of flowers. Now, it was just like everything else: dead. There was a mound in the very center.

Mars had seen dead animals before. On roadsides, mostly. This one was too far gone for her to make out what it had once been. Kinda medium, maybe the corpse of a deer, or some similarly-sized four-legged creature. Twisted in a death-rattle pose, decayed past the juicy-rot phase and on to the stage where there was little more than dry, cracked skin draped over bone. Mars could see inside the ribcage to the shriveled organs beneath. 

...Wait. Why were those organs still moving?

A thin layer of skin over what was left of an eye cracked open. Literally, cracked. “...Didy? ...Dids-meister,...is that you? ...What’ve you been up to?” The reedy voice, despite being of sickly quality, seemed to have a cheerful note throughout. And then, the skull smiled.

Yumika bowed low, her head to the ground, as did Dumpling. “King Saisho No Me. Here are the people you asked to see.”

All four hands flew to Mars’s mouth. Her lips trembled, it was an effort to keep standing, because the reality that was sinking in was just to horrible to take. “Oh....Oh, my gosh, guys. That poor thing’s still alive!”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the stench of this terrible blog...bleck!”

[letterboxd]

Tristan Oliver Q&A.

“We have had far more problems shooting on a 5D than we ever did on film. The sheer absurdity of the throwaway society and obsolescence leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”

Cinematographer Tristan Oliver takes us behind the scenes of the Wallace & Gromit train-chase scene, a flood on Isle of Dogs, and the time he acted with Colin Firth, Rupert Everett and Cary Elwes in 80s British romance Another Country.

Oliver was the man behind many of the cameras on stop motion films including Isle of Dogs, Fantastic Mr. Fox, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, ParaNorman and Chicken Run. He also filmed the Academy Award-nominated Loving Vincent.

We asked him some of your questions and some of our own (but we did not ask him “what is Wes Anderson like?”—read on to find out why).

Several Letterboxd members (including ReiJr, Curtis and Nicolas Inard) want to know what drew you to animation cinematography over live action, and what makes it interesting for you?

Well, obviously it’s a ridiculous way to make a living by any definition and I don’t think I ever really, actively wanted to do it. I just kind of fell into it. I was shooting some pop promos for friends and needed to borrow some lights and I knew a couple of people at Aardman—at that time it was literally a couple of dozen people. They said “Oh great, what are you doing next week?”

It was so great—they never used to schedule anything. They just used to ask you in and you’d stay until the job finished a few weeks later. So I stayed as a freelancer with them for a very long time. At the same time, I had a child, so I needed some regular income. I stuck at it at Aardman and I was good at it and they liked me.

It was an exciting time inasmuch as they were reinventing the entire look of stop-frame [animation], because stop-frame really was kids’ TV up until that time—it was super quick and rough and very crudely photographed. Big, soft lights and go home and forget about it. So what we started to do was create a very cinematic look for it, and make it into a much bigger canvas and bigger screen. Our driving motivation was that we made no concession at all to the fact that it was animation, we just tried to make it look nice.

[Animation] was a genre that was neglectful of its cinematography, and even now, I meet animators who don’t really care about it. It’s all about puppets as far as they’re concerned, and I think generally anyone watching the films doesn’t really care about cinematography. It’s the Cinderella department. People are all over the props and puppets.

Immediately getting a little more technical, how does one pull off a rack focus with moving stop motion elements in the shot? —Gina

That’s very interesting because of course stop motion isn’t moving. It’s entirely static until you move it. So a rack focus is just broken down into as many frames as you want it to take place over. So if it’s a twelve-frame or an eight-frame rack focus, in one way you can put a piece of tape over the lens and you move it one notch each frame. Or, we use a motion control computer to do it, which we do these days because it’s much smoother. The animator will press a button, the camera takes a frame, the motion control computer moves—and the animation software will trigger what needs to be triggered.

Although the camera move is conceived in real time, you know, A-to-B, if it takes four seconds you can run it at four seconds or you can run it at a frame a time—now move your puppet and off it goes. So the puppet follows the camera, as it were.

Motion control is one of the things that really liberated us. When we were setting up Chicken Run, that was suddenly a film that needed to play out on a cinema screen rather than a television screen, and moving the camera through space was one of the ways to expand that space. We kind of take it for granted that we can do that now.

Cinematographer Tristan Oliver on set

I was wondering how different lighting a set for a stop motion film is compared to a live-action film and maybe what some challenges of lighting a stop-motion film are? Thanks, I love your work! —Ben

Thank you Ben! Well. I would say that aesthetically there should be no difference because, coming back to my original point, one’s aim should be to make something look beautiful and not really concede in any way to the fact that you are shooting animation.

But there are some issues. Primarily of course the size of what you’re shooting—and this means that relative to the characters you’re shooting, the camera is very, very large. The camera is kind of the size of a small car inside a domestic environment. It’s normally as tall as the character, so you do have issues lighting the character without the camera getting in way. You also have enormous issues with depth of focus because normally we are working right up to the minimum [focal point] of the lens. So to get stuff looking natural, you have to work at a very tiny aperture to get the depth of field that you’d find acceptable in live action.

A puppet’s head might only be the size of the top of my thumb and if I focus on its eye I might find that its nose and ears are unacceptably out of focus. So we are really asking the lenses to do something they were never really designed to do well, which is to work at tiny stops. Most lenses are optimized around ƒ/4, ƒ/5, ƒ/6 and we typically use them around ƒ/14. We really do beat them into submission.

The other issue is heat, of course. We don’t want to be cooking the animators or the puppets or the environments. Luckily, we don’t need a huge amount of intensity with light because we can vary our shutter speed, because we are taking shots one frame at a time. But we do need to keep sets comfortable. We do occasionally use large lights—especially if we’re shooting daylight exteriors—because you very quickly give away that they’re models [if] the shadows fan out, and real shadows don’t do that. They remain parallel, or “coherent” as we call it.

Has LED lighting changed DOP work for stop motion? —Tim

Yes, LED has in many ways transformed our world. The reason being that it’s very tiny so you can hide it and it’s very cool so it doesn’t produce any heat, and also you can dim it without the colour changing.

As an example, on Isle of Dogs we have a large theater set which is all painted with red and black lacquer in the Japanese style and it is lit by paper lanterns (which are actually made out of painted resin). Each of those lanterns contains a very small incandescent bulb, so when you dim those the colour gets very warm and orange. But then we have other [LED] fixtures in that environment and they can be dimmed right down but their colour doesn’t change, so you can keep a very dim but pure light point and that makes the warm stuff read warmer. It’s all about showing the eye where the light is. LEDs just have that purity of colour which doesn’t change with intensity.

And the other thing I wanted to say is the main difference is the sheer number of units we’re shooting on. We typically run between 40 and 50 units, and I’m having to be across all of those in terms of how the film looks. So I’m personally hands-on lighting a lot of those but I can’t do all of them. I have a couple of other guys who help me out and they work to my brief so that it looks like one person did it.

It is a huge, very busy environment in a very large stage with a lot of people running around. I think people’s impression of animation is a very ponderous, dull thing but actually, although it takes a long time, they’re working as quickly as they can. And they’re all working on their own.

Wes Anderson with his Isle of Dogs cast

What type of personality do you think you need to work in stop motion? There’s a stereotype that you must have to be very patient, but the reality is quite different?

I think the idea of “patience” is... I don’t even know where that comes from. That is what we call one of the “top five questions”. That, along with “tell us what is one of the most difficult things you had to do on the film” and “what is Wes Anderson like?”.

I don’t know what anyone’s being patient about, really. Where’s the patience? An animator is animating. He (or she) is working as fast as he possibly can, doing a very complicated performance through the medium of a puppet. So he is undergoing a degree of concentration it would be impossible to imagine and around him sets are being built, painted, lit, set up.

In all respects it is exactly like a live action department—it’s very busy, there is no downtime. So this concept of patience is entirely erroneous. What you actually need is stamina. Not patience. Because this is five or six days a week, 60-hour weeks for two years. And it’s intensely busy. Because of the length of time it takes to shoot, we’re in a rolling process of pre-production even when we’re in production. People are constantly losing their temper and constantly screaming and running out of the studio. To think there’s some kind of monkish, trappist environment… [shakes head].

Which villain did you find more terrifying from the films you worked on? —Manny

They’re not that scary are they, because they’re puppets, but I guess the best villain is Feathers McGraw from The Wrong Trousers, because it’s a penguin and it never speaks, and yet it has a sense of menace to it that is so thorough. It hasn’t even got pupils! It does occasionally blink but it mostly just sits there and... looks. It’s amazing how well it works.

What is it about penguins in animation? There are so many… Surf’s Up. Madagascar. Pingu…

Feathers McGraw and Wallace in Aardman Animation’s The Wrong Trousers

When stop motion films were first shot digitally, sensor noise was an issue that sometimes led to ‘crawling’ artefacts between frames. Has this been mitigated in newer camera hardware, or is it something you still need to watch out for? —Matthew

Do you know what? I read that question and I thought “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” I’m completely unaware of this as an issue. The only film I think that may have been an issue on was Corpse Bride. We did have issues with the 5D which was used as the default animation camera for about ten years. But those issues were to do with the chip heating up and causing fluctuations with the density and the contrast. But the camera I used for Isle of Dogs and also Aardman used for Early Man, which is the Canon 1D X, was pretty damn good. Pretty stable. So it’s kind of ironed out. I mean, you know, no camera on earth is designed to shoot stop-motion animation. I mean why would it be? So we’re always looking for the next camera.

I know that Pete Kozachik is an extreme fan of 30- to 40-second shutter speeds, which is frankly ludicrous. That may have resulted in excessive sensor noise, but that’s more to do with the shutter speed.

How do you handle having to start an insanely complex shot again after an error?

That’s a very interesting question and I’ll tell you why: because the only reason that we reshoot is if there’s an animation problem. Because nothing gets shot until everything is right. So everything is tested. The lighting, the motion control, set dressing, everything is run in front of the director to the point where they say yes, good to go.

The reason is: you can’t ask an animator to reshoot a shot if they’ve done nothing wrong because you’ve cocked it up. So only animation issues are reshot. And from that point of view, it doesn’t bother me in the least, because I just go in and make sure they’re good to go, and they just go again. It’s their loss of time, not my loss of time. They’re normally quite okay about it. Most animators don’t mind having a second go because it does give them the opportunity to improve.

If there’s a catastrophic tech error on the other hand… We did have a flood on Isle of Dogs. We had a massive hole in the roof and a torrential thunderstorm and we lost some stuff in that way. So that becomes an Act of God, a force majeure, and you just have to get on with it.

But also we do monitor what’s going on, so I tend to pop in and just make sure the animators are okay and do my daily rounds. If I see an animator has unwittingly missed a focus point or position because they hadn’t been concentrating, I would inform the first [assistant director] and say “we need to restart this shot”. But because of the critical mass of shooting on 40 to 50 units, if you have an issue, it’s not really an issue. It can be frustrating, that’s all.

Gromit and friends in Curse of the Were-Rabbit

What, if anything, do you miss about the 35mm Chicken Run and Curse of the Were-Rabbit days?

There are things I miss about 35mm days. The structure of the day is far more coherent when you’re shooting on film, because you start your day looking at the rushes, looking at the dailies, then you go into the edit suite and you look at that material cut in, and then you go to the studio floor and address what needs addressing. Whereas when shooting digitally, every time someone finishes a shot you all have to go and look at it, get them turned over, and so on.

There is also far less downtime for animators and bizarrely I think they suffer from that because the process of sitting down and discussing shots and comparing notes is over. The experience of sitting in a green room and getting into a conversation with two or three old silverbacks of the industry is gone really.

The other thing is it’s no quicker shooting digitally. We shot Chicken Run in 78 weeks and we shot Isle of Dogs in 86 weeks, so it actually took longer.

A problem you get with digital is you suddenly have far too much choice. We would do everything in-camera on film. We would use painted backdrops for skies. Everything would be shot into camera, and now of course you can just shoot green screen and decide what your background’s going to look like later.

You’re giving yourself way too much choice because you can. So the amount of creative decision-making is thrown to the end of the movie. That seems like liberation but in fact it’s just putting off what could otherwise be a perfectly reasonable decision. And I think living with what you’ve done isn’t a bad way of working.

And the other thing—which has nothing to do with the practicalities of shooting—which appals me, is that every time we do a movie you have to buy new cameras, because they wear out, so they have a life, and they always stop manufacturing the damn things.

Halfway through Isle of Dogs they stopped making the camera we were shooting on! We had 50 and we had to find another 30 and we had to scour the world for them because Canon was no longer manufacturing them.

Whereas at Aardman, I could take a camera off the shelf that was made in 1928 and I’d know that I was using a piece of 70- or 80-year-old technology that was just going to keep going. We did not lose a shot on Curse of the Were-Rabbit or Chicken Run to a camera problem.

We have had far more problems shooting on a 5D than we ever did on film. The sheer absurdity of the throwaway society and obsolescence leaves a bad taste in the mouth. That at the beginning of every movie you have to spend $300,000–400,000 on new cameras.

At the end all those cameras are [sold on] eBay. The sheer fact of having to put all those cameras on eBay is absurd.

The famous train-chase scene in The Wrong Trousers

Can you tell us any good stories about the train-chase scene in The Wrong Trousers? (Emma guesses it must be the most challenging scene you’ve ever worked on, and there’s no doubt it is one of the best action scenes in a film, ever.)

Ha! Do you know how long ago that was? My daughter Sally was born the second week of shooting The Wrong Trousers and she’s just had her 26th birthday. However, I can tell you exactly about the train chase because it was a lot of fun, that particular segment.

So what you have, of course, is you have this chase that appears to take place in an infinitely huge environment, because the train is moving. We did some crude math and decided the train would be moving at 50mph if it was scaled up. So we did some tests and it looked really slow. So we just kept going up and up and up. And in fact it’s now moving at about 200mph scale-to-scale.

It’s tiny, absolutely minute, the train. We devised this method for shooting where you never see both ends of the train at the same time, so it’s either being pushed or it’s being pulled. It’s attached to the camera, [which is] on a crane hanging over the set. And the camera either had a rod that was pushing or a thread that was pulling. There is no motion control at all.

Laid on the floor is a tape measure and a pointer pointing at the tape measure. We’d hit the camera button—it had a two-second exposure—and we’d push the train 10cm [3.9in] along the track. So it’s moving at 10cm a frame. That’s a lot of distance to cover. And as the train is pulled or pushed, its wheels naturally go around on the track, so it self-animates its own spinning wheels as it goes along.

And we had a set that was a sort of long living room. It was Wallace’s living room but stretched, so it was about five meters long. At one end there was this huge sofa and the camera would go along following the train and it would go behind the sofa and as soon as it moved we’d pick the sofa up and take it down the other end of the set and the camera would move around the sofa and the train would keep going again.

And then when the penguin flies through the air, we actually mounted a sheet of glass in front of the camera—a big sheet of glass so you could see the set through it—and then the penguin was animated across that sheet of glass from right to left. So it looked like it was flying through the air, but the camera was still moving—everything was moving at 10cm a frame—so that’s 2.4 meters per second on double-0 gauge (if you know anything about trains). If you scale that up you’re moving at a hell of a lick!

So the penguin is stuck to the sheet of glass each time he is moved?

He’s had his back sliced off him so he’s like half a penguin, a bas-relief, if you like.

Then there are two other bits on that sequence. (It’s a very big sequence, obviously, there’s a lot to tell!) One is when the train goes around the corner. So for that I built this tiny dolly, which was a wedge of timber with four furniture casters on it and a massive Mitchell camera mounted on top of it. The track went under the camera, and I actually knelt on the set and hand dollied it round the bend.

I thought “this is fantastic!”. But when we actually shot it, what I had completely neglected to register is that as you hit the button the shutter goes around and it completely obscures the eye-piece—so I did it blind, really.

And the other shot is where the camera goes under the table. I can’t actually remember how we did that. I think we had a table that just broke away. But it’s all in-camera. There are no special effects at all.

We had a crew of six on that film. And only 150 shots in the whole movie. It’s amazing. The camera just sits there and watches what’s going on. It doesn’t cut, cut, cut. The camera sits there and you watch the whole sequence of penguin looking up at museum and all the other scenes.

Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs

Did you have a favorite moment on Isle of Dogs?

[Laughing] The last day! There are certain bits of Isle of Dogs that I greatly enjoyed bringing to the screen, but overall it was a slog. Working with a director who is an auteur gives you far less scope to exercise your own creative imagination, so you become reactive rather than proactive. That can be frustrating. That isn’t saying that the film isn’t fabulous and everyone will love it, but in terms of saying I loved that and I did that, it isn’t really my work. It’s something that I “enabled”, if you will.

There are some things that give you a degree of satisfaction. The problem with these movies is they are vast machines that roll on, so the intense personal satisfaction that I used to derive from shooting stuff like The Wrong Trousers is kinda lacking, because it’s such a huge thing.

I had a lot of fun shooting ParaNorman. By my own admission, I think I made a really, really good job of it and I think it looks fantastic. I enjoyed the directors, I enjoyed working at Laika. It was great.

What are five films you love for their cinematography?

I love Conrad Hall so I would always have Road to Perdition, his last movie, which I think is absolutely stunning. The beauty of shooting that film, dying and then getting a posthumous Academy Award is fantastic.

Seamus McGarvey is a great talent and I think Atonement is a beautiful looking film.

Casablanca is absolutely beautiful in black and white. That’s an astonishing looking movie. God, absolutely stunning.

I just think the standard of cinematography is so high at the moment. Production values just generally are so much better than they were 20 years ago—you can see a lot of bad movies but they’re very rarely badly shot.

The latest Blade Runner is fantastic. I’m so glad Roger [Deakins] won an award for that. Revolutionary Road, he did a fantastic job on that as well.

Any women cinematographers you have an eye on?

I realise that’s a prod, but Mudbound is a very handsome looking movie. I think [Rachel Morrison] did a fantastic job on Mudbound. Ask me in another ten years and I’m sure I’ll have many more names.

Did you ever meet Roger Deakins?

No, never. I met Jack Cardiff a couple of times, in his 90s. He was very twinkly. He’s a very naughty man—I think he had sex with nearly every leading woman that he worked with, which given that he is about five foot four is astonishing. He wrote a fantastic book called Magic Hour which has some absolutely awesome anecdotes in it. It’s well worth a read.

Could you have imagined in your wildest dreams that you’d spend a quarter of a century working in this field?

Tristan Oliver on set

My wildest dreams? Like some hideous nightmare! I mean, “no” is the answer. I think I’ve always kind of felt that I would be getting out of it at some point. You very rapidly become pigeonholed in this business. Because it’s what I do, it’s what I get asked to do. People are ludicrously conservative about this.

A case in point is Loving Vincent. The reason I got that job was because I knew about animation. But I actually shot a 90-minute, single-camera, live-action movie with a dolly, cranes, the works, in 16 days, which is pretty good going for a 90-minute movie. Then someone took it away and whilst I was shooting Isle of Dogs they painted all over it!

But isn’t it weird that I got the job because I knew about animation? That’s what the business is like—a crazy, slightly blinkered view. But all my films get seen by a lot of people. They’re proper big movies, they go all over the world.

What memories spring to mind when you think about Another Country all these years later? It must feel like another life.

Ha! 35 years later. The thing about that movie is that’s kind of what made me do what I do today. I didn’t really know anything about films until I did that movie, and I became very friendly with the camera crew [director of photography Peter Biziou, who later won an Academy Award for Mississippi Burning, and camera operator David Garfath, who also worked on The Empire Strikes Back]. I was really interested in it.

At secondary school I had done my exams in physics, biology and chemistry so I had a technical knowledge. I absolutely adored acting. I really, really, really enjoyed acting, but it just never happened for me. I had at one point to make a decision about whether I was going to live in a tiny flat by the seaside and do a couple of commercials and a pantomime every year and end up in a blazer and cravat, or do something that would make me a living. So I did spend a couple of schizophrenic years being a clapper loader and an actor, then I went to film school.

But my memories of that film are very intense and very fond. I mean, that was a real eye-opener for me. I’d never been in that environment before, surrounded by those sorts of people doing that job. It was deeply affecting. I think it damaged me for about five years. Although it was only a few weeks of my life, I then had to go back and finish my degree and the phone never rang. Everyone was interested in Rupert [Everett] and Colin [Firth], or Cary [Elwes]. Although only Colin really became a superstar.

In hindsight I’d have got myself a publicity agent and gone out there and sold myself. So I do this now. I lead a life of anonymity.

Look at an animated feature: in terms of awards, all it’ll be up for is best animated feature. The Annies don’t ever have a category for cinematography, and they have a category for everything, even an award for the floor sweeper! I wrote to them and asked them in the nicest possible way, why don’t you have a category for cinematography? And they went, ‘Oh it’s far too expensive to introduce new categories’. Then a year later they introduced two new categories. It’s absolutely absurd. We go very unconsidered in this world. Trying to gain membership of any professional organisation is impossible.

I’ve shot six movies and every one has been nominated or won an Academy Award. And I’ve shot short movies that have won or been nominated. They just go, ‘Yeah, it’s animation though isn’t it’.

Well, what keeps getting you up in the morning, in terms of what you do?What do you think is the role of storytellers such as yourself and the teams you work with in our society?

Stories are what separate us from the beasts. We are the only animal capable of projecting abstract thoughts into the future or into the past and drawing analogies in that way. I think it’s what makes us human: the ability to tell stories. There’s no anything without story. People ask me what makes a great movie and I go “the script”.

People love to watch people acting stuff out. It’s peculiar. It’s not something that any other animal does. It’s very deep within us, this need to tell stories. In fact they’ve now decided that the way these neolithic cave illustrations have been structured, with animals with multiple legs, is because when they were lit by candlelight it gave the impression of running. As the candlelight flickered, these things galloped. It’s all about story.

Finally, tell us why we ought to visit Bristol, the home of Aardman Animation?

Why would one visit Bristol?! Well, it has a thriving arts and animation scene. It’s a little bit laid-back. It’s rather like Portland in that respect. If you were in the UK and you wanted a day out I’m sure it’s right up there with Bath. It’s next door to Bath so you could probably do both in a weekend. But the thing about Bristol is it’s so nice, it’s so comfortable, that people used to go there and never leave.

I’ve experienced this many times because when I was crewing up Fantastic Mr. Fox—and indeed Isle of Dogs—I asked some of my old crew from Aardman to come and work with me. And they were all incredibly reluctant and it’s only 110 miles away! They were happier to be unemployed in Bristol than come to London, which terrifies them because there’s too many people there. Portland is where young people to go to retire and Bristol is the graveyard of ambition.

Our thanks to Tristan Oliver for his time and energy and to Fox for arranging the interview. See the accompanying list of favorite cinematographers and the questions thread.

[dfroza]

to welcome what is new:

new wine into new wineskins. just as the spiritual truth of the new covenant of grace held in a reborn heart

(inside, Anew)

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 5th chapter of the book of Luke:

Picture these events:

On the banks of Gennesaret Lake, a huge crowd, Jesus in the center of it, presses in to hear His message from God. Off to the side, fishermen are washing their nets, leaving their boats unattended on the shore.

Jesus gets into one of the boats and asks its owner, Simon, to push off and anchor a short distance from the beach. Jesus sits down and teaches the people standing on the beach.

After speaking for a while, Jesus speaks to Simon.

Jesus: Move out into deeper water, and drop your nets to see what you’ll catch.

Simon (perplexed): Master, we’ve been fishing all night, and we haven’t caught even a minnow. But . . . all right, I’ll do it if You say so.

Simon then gets his fellow fishermen to help him let down their nets, and to their surprise, the water is bubbling with thrashing fish—a huge school. The strands of their nets start snapping under the weight of the catch, so the crew shouts to the other boat to come out and give them a hand. They start scooping fish out of the nets and into their boats, and before long, their boats are so full of fish they almost sink!

Simon’s fishing partners, James and John (two of Zebedee’s sons), along with the rest of the fishermen, see this incredible haul of fish. They’re all stunned, especially Simon. He comes close to Jesus and kneels in front of His knees.

Simon: I can’t take this, Lord. I’m a sinful man. You shouldn’t be around the likes of me.

Jesus: Don’t be afraid, Simon. From now on, I’ll ask you to bring Me people instead of fish.

The fishermen haul their fish-heavy boats to land, and they leave everything to follow Jesus.

Another time in a city nearby, a man covered with skin lesions comes along. As soon as he sees Jesus, he prostrates himself.

Leper: Lord, if You wish to, You can heal me of my disease.

Jesus reaches out His hand and touches the man, something no one would normally do for fear of being infected or of becoming ritually unclean.

Jesus: I want to heal you. Be cleansed!

Immediately the man is cured. Jesus tells him firmly not to tell anyone about this.

Jesus: Go, show yourself to the priest, and do what Moses commanded by making an appropriate offering to celebrate your cleansing. This will prove to everyone what has happened.

Even though Jesus said not to talk about what happened, soon every conversation was consumed by these events. The crowds swelled even larger as people went to hear Jesus preach and to be healed of their many afflictions. Jesus repeatedly left the crowds, though, stealing away into the wilderness to pray.

One day Jesus was teaching in a house, and the healing power of the Lord was with Him. Pharisees and religious scholars were sitting and listening, having come from villages all across the regions of Galilee and Judea and from the holy city of Jerusalem.

Some men came to the house, carrying a paralyzed man on his bed pallet. They wanted to bring him in and present him to Jesus, but the house was so packed with people that they couldn’t get in. So they climbed up on the roof and pulled off some roof tiles. Then they lowered the man by ropes so he came to rest right in front of Jesus.

In this way, their faith was visible to Jesus.

Jesus (to the man on the pallet): My friend, all your sins are forgiven.

The Pharisees and religious scholars were offended at this. They turned to one another and asked questions.

Pharisees and Religious Scholars: Who does He think He is? Wasn’t that blasphemous? Who can pronounce that a person’s sins are forgiven? Who but God alone?

Jesus (responding with His own question): Why are your hearts full of questions? Which is easier to say, “Your sins are forgiven” or “Get up and walk”? Just so you’ll know that the Son of Man is fully authorized to forgive sins on earth (He turned to the paralyzed fellow lying on the pallet), I say, get up, take your mat, and go home.

Then, right in front of their eyes, the man stood up, picked up his bed, and left to go home—full of praises for God! Everyone was stunned. They couldn’t help but feel awestruck, and they praised God too.

People: We’ve seen extraordinary things today.

Some time later, Jesus walked along the street and saw a tax collector named Levi sitting in his tax office.

Jesus: Follow Me.

And Levi did. He got up from his desk, left everything (just as the fishermen had), and followed Jesus.

Shortly after this, Levi invited his many friends and associates, including many tax collectors, to his home for a large feast in Jesus’ honor. Everyone sat at a table together.

The Pharisees and their associates, the religious scholars, got the attention of some of Jesus’ disciples.

Pharisees (in low voices): What’s wrong with you? Why are you eating and drinking with tax collectors and other immoral people?

Jesus (answering for the disciples): Healthy people don’t need a doctor, but sick people do. I haven’t come for the pure and upstanding; I’ve come to call notorious sinners to rethink their lives and turn to God.

Pharisees: Explain to us why You and Your disciples are so commonly found partying like this, when our disciples—and even the disciples of John—are known for fasting rather than feasting, and for saying prayers rather than drinking wine.

Jesus: Imagine there’s a wedding going on. Is that the time to tell the guests to ignore the bridegroom and fast? Sure, there’s a time for fasting—when the bridegroom has been taken away. Look, nobody tears up a new garment to make a patch for an old garment. If he did, the new patch would shrink and rip the old, and the old garment would be worse off than before. And nobody takes freshly squeezed juice and puts it into old, stiff wineskins. If he did, the fresh wine would make the old skins burst open, and both the wine and the wineskins would be ruined. New demands new—new wine for new wineskins. Anyway, those who’ve never tasted the new wine won’t know what they’re missing; they’ll always say, “The old wine is good enough for me!”

The Book of Luke, Chapter 5 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 13th chapter of the book of Job where Job addresses reverence before our Creator:

Job: Look. I’ve seen it all with my eyes,

heard and understood it with my ears.

What you know, I know, too;

don’t think I am so far beneath you!

Let our differences be clear; I am ready to speak to the Highest One,

eagerly wanting to argue my case with God.

But you! You smear me with lies as if to help,

but as healers you are worthless.

Would that you were totally silent.

At least that would make you seem wise.

Please, just listen while I reason this out;

lean in to hear how my lips will plead.

Will you try to defend God’s cause by telling lies?

Be deceitful on His behalf?

Will you show partiality for Him?

Argue on His behalf?

How would you fare

if He searched your soul?

Do you think you might deceive Him

as you would any other person?

No. He would bring charges against you

even if you secretly show partiality.

Aren’t you horrified at the weight of His majesty?

Isn’t the dread of Him enough to drop you where you stand?

All your quoted proverbs turn to ash;

your clever comebacks crumble like brittle towers of clay.

So keep your mouths shut around me, and let me speak to God.

And whatever may come, let it come.

Why should I lay my body at the mercy of the words of my own mouth

or risk my life with only my own hands to defend me?

Look, He may well kill me,

but I will hope in Him.

Still I will be ready to argue my case before His very face.

In fact, this will become my salvation,

for the godless wouldn’t even dare to approach Him.

So then here is my account. Listen carefully!

Give me a chance to share my side of the story with you.

My case is prepared, and I am confident

I will be found righteous.

And yet who will meet me in court to argue the other side?

If I am out-argued, then I will stay mute until I die.

Lord, I ask only two concessions in this case;

if You grant them, I will not hide from Your face.

First, remove Your damaging hand from me;

second don’t intimidate me anymore with your terrifying presence.

Then send me Your summons, and I will reply,

or better yet, I will speak first and then You answer me.

How many counts do You have against me?

How many sins must I account for?

Spell out the nature of Your indictment against my rebellious ways.

Why do You hide Your face from me;

why is my name now “nemesis” to You?

Would You waste Your energy to terrify a windblown leaf,

or chase down the dry chaff as it tumbles in the breeze?

For I see bitter accusations against me written in Your own hand;

You call me to account for the guilt of my youth.

You fasten shackles at my ankles but still keep close watch on where I walk,

marking the places where my feet may plant themselves.

This is how a person wastes away to nothing,

like something rotten, like moth-eaten clothing.

The Book of Job, Chapter 13 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Tuesday, April 20 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about clinging to True hope:

Though it is true that God will never leave nor forsake us, he nevertheless allows trouble in our lives so that we will learn to call upon him and know his heart... For how else will we understand the truth of our great need for him, and how else his great provision? "Blessed are the poor in spirit," describes the poignant awareness of our inner poverty, our bankruptcy of heart, the destitution of our condition (Matt. 5:3). We cry inwardly, "Forsake me not, O LORD: O my God, be not far from me" (Psalm 38:21) because we realize our need for deliverance from ourselves; we understand that we cannot take a step in his way apart from his upholding. "Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe: and I will have respect unto thy statutes continually" (Psalm 119:117). "Do not forsake me, O LORD, is the mantra in our darkness, the antiphon of God's promised Presence; it is the cry of the heart that knows that only God can get us through the next moment and its temptation to despair. "Do not forsake me, O LORD, lest I be swallowed up by my pain, my fear, my sadness, my anguish of heart; do not forsake me, for I am nothing but the anguish of the moment, the sorrow of loneliness, the fear of my own heart as I tremble before you in my desperation...

O LORD, You came to heal the sick; you spoke life to those who are without strength or remedy; you came to seek the lost, to find those who are without a place or sense of belonging in this world. O Lord, you know that without you I can do nothing; you know that I weak, poor, and needy; my path is perilous and I have no hope apart from you. Be not far from me; do not leave me to my own devices nor the counsel of my own soul. Save me, O God, for the glory of your Name; be magnified in your heart of love and faithfulness. Amen. [Hebrew for Christians]

4.19.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

April 20, 2021

God Is Holy

“Who is like unto thee, O LORD, among the gods? who is like thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?” (Exodus 15:11)

The awesome vision of the throne that God gave Isaiah included a short description of the seraphims. They stood above the throne announcing, “Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory” (Isaiah 6:3). They are cited again in Revelation 4:8 constantly saying, “Holy, holy, holy, LORD God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come.”

Apparently, the holiness of God is all-consuming.

Both the Hebrew and Greek words for “holy” used in Scripture are strong descriptions of separateness, a dedicated detachment from all else. “Who shall not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name? for thou only art holy” (Revelation 15:4). “There is none holy as the LORD: for there is none beside thee: neither is there any rock like our God” (1 Samuel 2:2).

It is this absolute and unique transcendence that sets the Creator of the universe above and beyond all others: “For I am God, and there is none else; I am God, and there is none like me” (Isaiah 46:9). Although there are “gods many, and lords many” (1 Corinthians 8:5), and the “desperately wicked” heart of man (Jeremiah 17:9) twists the “glory of the uncorruptible God” (Romans 1:23) into every vile image possible, “Jesus Christ [is] the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever” (Hebrews 13:8).

Since God is holy, you and I can trust Him without reservation or doubt. “For all the promises of God in him are yea, and in him Amen” (2 Corinthians 1:20). Since God is holy, we can be totally confident that our souls are secure in God, “with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning” (James 1:17). HMM III

[myvoicenottheoneyougiveme]

I need to keep a tally of the number of times a day you veer left and right to hold up your teetering house of cards.

But if I speak up once a week right here... I’m suddenly, actually the one exerting monumental force in a colossal effort to rewrite reality as it stands. As though that’s not “this” (your game) every second of every day, day in and day out multiple times a day, over and over and over and over and over and over again.

A never ending tumble. Something you CANT leave alone. Someone you can’t leave alone. A reflection you can’t leave alone. A source and a dumpster. A scapegoat for you to use to aggrandize yourself and your victimhood.

You’ll excuse me if I read absolutely zero sincerity coming from someone just trying to get me to bend over and take “this”. You’ll excuse me if your actions speak louder than your words. You’ll excuse me if I read your attempts as nothing more than ploys to regain leverage on me. You mean what you say for five seconds before you don’t immediately get the reactions you want. When you “give” the way you always did, it is “instrumental”. You’re out to get a payoff. You don’t mean anything. You just want to “get”. Control, attention, affection, dominance over your source of supply and a reinforcement of the channel into which you dump everything in your reflection you want to distance yourself from.

You saw me “taking an interest” in a character I haven’t gotten to know at all, who has the same appeal as any character in her vein, perhaps even more so than the one she’s contrasted with. You then made a play with the feed. It was far too subtle, but there were a few stops there. All I saw was someone teeing me up for what came next. Rather than a genuine admission of fault or a sign of accountability (LOL) by the nebulous and insincere being behind “this”, you were opportunistically trying to capitalize on an opening, and you didn’t get the reaction you wanted.

The only way for you to deal with that fact, the only way for you to ever deal with rejection or invalidation is to make me into something or someone less than human. It was too subtle, in the first place, if you ask me. But it’s not like the door was exactly open to you all things considered. But the vibe, the pattern was illuminated by contrast with what came next. So, now that you’ve made some great display for 5 seconds as being the one who gets on their knees and “gives” and makes concessions and isn’t actually the taker/trampler in “this” picture--OH BABY FORGIVE ME, [keeps scrolling]--now you have a foothold or solid ground from which to launch your next move. Cause I clicked and SAVED that picture. 

Rejecting the “sincere” (wink wink) attempts to.... well do what exactly? Isn’t that where the wheels fall off? Actions, louder than words. But in the reality where you’ve made some kind of bullshit-sorry scratch-heartfelt plea, the person that denies you has to no right to, is that what you’re telling me? No one has a right to say “no” to you, is that what you’re telling me? OH, but you slithered into the ether behind the screen and donned the caricature; you GIVE so much...

The person that means anything they give, is the one capable of taking “no” for an answer. What is truly selfless is given without thought of reward. What is truly meant, is meant regardless of the response you get. How many times? How many times when you would disappoint or reject or say “not now”, did I ever meltdown and call you names?

The one that stands out to me the most? What I was meant to believe was some kind of genuine moment of connection, like so many before it. How many times? I remember this time because it was the first time I’d heard that group in years. “Come on come on... I’m taking you home. No one, no one belongs here more than you.”

AWW, NO THATS OK

Oh. Well, then I guess I’ll, see you tomorrow?

But I digress... by virtue of the fact that you made a momentary selfie of a display, you could now say that the fact that I saw that and didn’t return an affection in kind... Oh, what a taker I am. Oh, how I just squeeze the life out of you. Oh, feed me feed me. Make me feel wonderful. Lift me up.

DA KING

Like I received it at all in the first place, or like it makes me feel any kind of anything when it’s coming from someone as disingenuous as you. Oh, but it was given, and I saw it and I... I what? Rejected it? No no no, you, you downloaded that picture GRRRR. Ya, I downloaded a piece of fan art off the internet. And from this piece, you can extrapolate an entire new me, an entire straw man against which you can cast yourself in contrast. You’re gonna tell me what things are, tell me what I think about them, tell me what they mean to me, tell me who I am. Which makes you, what? That’s right. And I don’t even mean the implied meaning of that sentence there, where you’re head is so big, you know me better than I know myself. I mean precisely what I’ve been describing. You tell me, you shout it from the rooftops and on the hillsides before the whole world, and that makes you.... NOT that. Not whatever you are pointing and screaming about me. You get to be NOT the thing you paint me as when you paint me as that.

Make me one thing, makes you another thing.

That’s my whole point. “This” can never end. What you get out of “this”, is myriad, but it’s simply allowing you to bolster a reflection about yourself at someone else’s expense. Your colossal never-ending exertion day in and day out every moment of every day, every chance you get multiple times a day.... SERIOUSLY, if I’m such an awful evil terrible person, WHY would you seek to POSSESS me? Oh, well, I just, it’s just my tragic flaw. Oh, I’m such a victim, I can’t help being drawn to destructive men. Oh, everyone see, see, I’m so helplessly enamored with this guy that rejects me and tells me how awful I am and all these terrible terrible lies. Oh me oh my. Feel sorry for me, everyone.

“This” can go in so many directions but every single one, is where you get to play the victim. For every turn there’s a reversal, and we need only NEVER look at how the rules the rest of us live by don’t apply to you. We need not ever look at what YOU are doing to me. No no no. We can’t have that. Then you’re naming me the very same person that’s in your mirror as you’re being that person.

You do “this” to me. You stalk me. You harass me. You wage a colossal effort with so many moving parts... to? To what? OH, I’m just protecting myself. I’m just holding YOU, that’s right, YOU accountable. I’m sorry, are we in a “relationship”? Are we anything? No, but but ...Ok, all you do is scream and point fingers endlessly, day in and day out. You live to lift yourself up on that throne of lies and to rope in as many people as you possibly can. You sure you don’t need “this”? You sure you don’t need to feel powerful and in control? Who is “this” for? Who? You are constantly scratching and clawing and trying to get attention back on yourself and to create openings and to improvise anything and everything you can to empower yourself and to justify yourself and to give you license to be GOD on earth... for WHAT? For WHO?

Every second you have access to me is another second you can spend flailing around on the ground like someone having a seizure at the scene of a car crash. (This is a joke people say sometimes, “I’ll practice my twitching and drooling”.) EVERYONE EVERYONE PAY ATTENTION TO YOU. Oh, oh oh, how awful. Oh, my, what has he done this time my dear? She drove headlong fullspeed into the side of my... SHUTUP NOBODY ASKED YOU, we were asking HER.

I mean you could make a rear-end collision somehow the driver-in-front-of-you’s fault. And what’s worse? I’m somehow obligated to you. I owe you, someone I’ve said “no” to. I’m not moving. I’m not moving. I’m not opening the door. I want nothing to do with you. I’m not trapping you making your life a prison or trying to squeeze a damned thing out of you as I say it either. I’m simply DONE. So, when you get a running start and break your poor wittle neck diving head first into a closed door? Oh, that’s just MORE PROOF. MORE PROOF. See, look what he’s done to our princess! See, her broken body!

This rant brought to you by, a singular instance of worn patience and/or a chosen battle. But if I speak up at all, suddenly I’m doing everything you’re doing to me every second of every day, day in and day out.

I have to be the parts of your reflection you don’t want. I have to be guilty of the things you’re actually responsible for and then some, so you never have to hold yourself accountable. It’s a power trip. It’s a damned ego trip.

The moment I, I exert any effort in trying to pry you, PSYCHO, off of my neck, I’m suddenly to blame for everything that’s actually... you. As though you weren’t doing any of these things. You, by virtue of being the one shouting the longest and the loudest and the most often, you take all attention off of your insecurities and put them on your scapegoat. You get all the attention you want and none that you don’t. But it’s yourself you’re hiding from. You get to feel like someone else. You get to feel like the victim.

To rewrite reality, to hide from your own reflection, requires and CONSTANT never-ending stream of mirroring. To maintain your self-regard and protect yourself from your own insecurities, you mount a colossal effort to never EVER face up to what you don’t want to face up to. Just the act of attacking me whether you get anything from me or not, cause it’s all the time, all the time, never stops. Everywhere all the time. Just the act of attacking me is solidifying your reflection. It doesn’t matter if it never pans out. It doesn’t matter if it’s never true. It doesn’t matter. You are playing a never-ending perpetual-motion game of hopscotch when the floor in the cracks is lava. It’s a race to outrun what you can’t ever actually finally outrun for good, yourself.

You have to fight and scratch and claw and live and breathe “This” game you play on my life, because it’s how you regulate yourself and your own emotional states. “This” house of cards WILL blow over without a constant never ending input from you and those you conscript. It’s both outside in the reflections you get, but it’s inside more than anything.

I don’t need to know you or what you’re thinking, to see and know what you’re doing. It’s a frantic desperate, never-ending effort of such massive proportions to, in lieu of squeezing me for all the time and attention you can get, making me something you can set yourself in contrast with. ...All day, every day, it’s the same thing, over and over and over and over again. Possess, own, dominate, control, coerce, extort, manipulate... scratch and claw and beat down and... I reject you. I deny you. I said “no” to you. I said, “get help” and we’ll come back at another time. We have to work on ourselves. We can’t do “this”. You didn’t take “no” for an answer. You escalated.

But I’m really not convinced, “this” ever amounted to anything in reality. But still, even if I suspend my disbelief for a moment... you didn’t take “no” for an answer. And every rejection, every sting of invalidating rejection, puts you into a position you can’t be in, face to face with all of your insecurities and all of the things that have ever gone wrong for you in relationships that you CANT bear any responsibility in. The more I don’t budge, the more the wall pushes back, the more adamant I’ve been forced to become, the more I’ve attempted then to hold up a mirror to your psycho behavior because you WONT FUCKING STOP, then the more you have to HAVE TO make me into some kind of villain. What other choice do you have? Sink into all of your self-loathing despair? Come face to face with all of your negative self-talk and all the ways you actually blame yourself? But it’s all or nothing. It’s always all or nothing. It’s always 1 or 0. One of us is everything wrong with the world (not because either of us necessarily actually is), and it sure as hell isn’t going to be you. That’s the zero sum game you’re playing with yourself. There is hatred and loathing and blame blame blame, and SOMEONE has to bear it.

It’s the conversation between Max Caulfield and Chloe Price. Someone HAS TO BE RESPONSIBLE, HAS TO BE TO BLAME, because otherwise it’s her fault. That’s completely between her and herself. That’s not coming from anyone but herself. That absolutely ZERO SUM game. ...Trauma.

I don’t care if you’re a narcissist or anything. I only care that you’re abusive, and that I can’t stand you. Someone has to be the sacrifice for everything wrong in your YOUR world because of this false choice. What you get out of “this” in lieu of “supposedly” an interest in ME of all people, is a scapegoat for what otherwise is eating you alive every second of every day.

Direct it at me then, that’s what happens. Direct it at me then. Let your rage and hatred and anger and toxic caustic bile that’s destroying you, instead destroy me. Because it’s bubbling up every second of every day, you’re bubbling up passing it all on directly to me. “This” monumental effort to install a new reality, to hold up a house of cards, every second of every day, unrelenting, without end. Put it on me, force it down my throat, cast yourself as the victim and everything right with “this” picture. Gaslight me. Triangulate everyone within reach. 

Everything, everything. And you sleep around, but I’m an awful sleazy horny piece of shit. Cause you can’t be a whore. You name it, if it’s a part of you and it makes you feel badly (whether warranted or not), I have to be it. Stalker names STALKER. Stalker director of “this” show names, BAD TRAMPLER OF BOUNDARIES. BEWARE everyone, don’t give him the wrong idea, you won’t be rid of him. You, you, you say this. You the person doing “this” says this. But that’s why you refer so frequently. Because that’s your reflection every second of every day.

I am the means, the vehicle to you managing your reflection. When you’re feeling any kind of way, you regulate it through me. You will have your way with me. You will get whatever you want from me, and you will not be denied. And you will not be held responsible for your own actions, and you will not be told no, and you will not be told that what you’re doing is wrong, and you will not be held accountable for the harm you knowingly inflict. What you get is as myriad as what your aim is at any given relative moment, but the pattern is simple...

You want love and affection and attention the same as anyone else, and you have deep wounds that torment you. The first is an attempt to medicate the second. Whether from failure at the first or skipping straight to the second, it all HAS TO BE REGULATED through SOMEONE. Something, someone outside of yourself. Whether that’s gathering as many people as possible to yourself at any given moment and wielding power that way over your reflection or scapegoating me. There are simply things in the reflection you get from me that you CANT deal with. Whether that’s rejection or calling you out for being abusive and daring to put a label on it as if it needed it.

Every second of every day, you are attempting to right the ship. Every second of every day is an attempt to reverse reality, whatever part of it is making you feel especially insecure and down on yourself at any given moment. All of “this” is to get out of me what you NEED to soothe and regulate yourself at any given moment. In lieu of getting a one-sided one-way street kind of relationship where you are bathed in love and affection as though I were your parent and you not obligated to behave like a human being or maintain any semblance whatsoever of a balanced reciprocal ANYTHING (relationship?! LOL), you put on me the darkness you then otherwise feel between you and yourself.

Zero-sum. False choice. You the evil awful terrible object that is everything wrong with the world because that’s the infantile state you would be otherwise reduced to. Instead of being to blame for being rejected, harmed, invalidated, neglected, instead of being the object of your own rage, you place me there.

There are many stories, I want to finally finish. Life is Strange being one of them. But I’m never going to forget that bit from that conversation. About half-way through, in the truck, friend trying to talk sense into her. Blaming everyone, blaming the whole world, putting all on everyone else... why? Because the only alternative was to feel that toward herself.

Trauma. Zero-sum. And that was your chosen representation/character and point of identification.

You don’t have to have a fancy psychological label to be doing this. People are so much more complicated than that. And there’s a long gradient between fully self-aware and just being completely reactive chaos playing out a pathological pattern. The difference between you and your partner in crime (literally) is marked, always was.

But you are torturing me. You are killing me. You have been for years.

Zero-sum.

The lengths you go to, it’s zero-sum. Not because it is, but because that’s how you experience it. Because the pain and the trauma you carry necessitates it, “this” is how you cope.

[queenjunoking]

Wolf Taming Pt 10

CW: Noncon - Shock Collar - Pain - Petplay - Drugs - Kidnapping  - Manipulation

Sasha was going to be in a vulnerable mood for a little while. Now would be the time to try some risky ideas. It would take her longer to reach the boiling point and it was hard to imagine her trying to immediately attack me.

I flipped on the camera while I prepped the room. I had struggled to decide how I wanted to use that vulnerability against her. Several rooms of fun toys, different things for Sasha to enjoy. 

I had so many fun toys I could use to hurt her. I desperately wanted to see her cry again. I wanted to see her afraid of me again. But I knew that would burn bridges. I brought her into a low headspace and if I hurt her she might shut down. 

I dreamt of the reaction she would have if I decided I didn't want the wolf. I wanted to see her shattered in my hands. The moment that big strong person just completely break to protect themself. It tempted me so much I thought about how easy it would he to just… do it. Literally nothing could stop me.

But I wanted my wolf. I had to treat her differently. I couldn't just hurt her. I had to guide her. I had to train her. Pain and suffering were only things she did to herself. I would never be at fault, if there were no broken rules there would be no pain. I couldn’t help but feeling the world was unfair, that forcing me to choose between the options felt like there was some kind of conspiracy against me. Why can’t I have both?

But I rationalized my choice. I could always get a different thing later. I wasn’t the kind of person who wanted a mansion filled with “things”. I only wanted things that grabbed my attention. Sasha grabbed my attention. How could she not? But I wasn't sure where I might go from here, Sasha was wonderful but would I want other projects? Another pet? Something else entirely? I knew some people picked up enough things that they were wasted as art pieces. That seemed cruel, even to me. Why bother getting them if you don't want to interact with them? I saw a poor little thing locked away in a statue once and I felt so bad for it, it should have someone to play with it. You could just have a statue and it was fine. That poor girl was still just wasting her potential locked away inside that contraption. Why get a toy if you’re just going to leave it sealed away in a box? You play with toys. I did desperately want a toy to expend my more… mean energy on. Eventually. I didn't want more than one project going at a time.

I finished prepping the room and looked back at the camera. She was still sullen, I saw that she had eaten a few more pieces of chicken. I doubt she wanted to eat, but she probably didn't want to pass up the real food that was in front of her. After double checking the equipment I decided it was time to take my risk. Maybe I could lift her spirits and she would see I wasn't so bad after all.

I put my comforting face back on and peaked out of the door and into the den. "Sasha? How are you doing sweetheart." She looked at me and acknowledged I had said something but didn't speak. "You can talk as much as you want right now sweetheart, I will tell you when the collar is back on."

She gave me a soft sigh. "What do you want?" It wasn't an angry question. She didn't sound rude. Our conversation had just taken the wind out of her sails and she obviously just wanted to be left alone.

I walked over to her and sat down in front of the cage, just barely out of reach. "I think I have something for you that you'll really like. And if you feel like working with me just a little bit you get to leave the cage for a little while."

She visibly perked up when she heard she might get to leave the cage. She had been inside of it for days. But it was gone quickly. I saw it though, she was so tempted to say yes before even hearing what the catch could be. To just work with me so she could leave. She huffed at me. "Oh? And what do I have to give up for such V.I.P. treatment? What do you want from me this time? Going to lock those paws on again? Have you figured out a way to give me a dog tail yet?"

I had to resist the urge to laugh. If she only knew. But her comment let slip something very tantalizing to me and she didn't even know it. She was clueless about kink stuff. I had so many fun things for her to experience and she sounded like she was going to be completely clueless about it. She was living the dream of some people and she didn't even realize it. People would pay a lot of money to be in her place. Not that I wanted anyone who would pay for this.

"Sasha, I'm not attaching any strings to this. I am simply offering you some time out of your cage where you will get to see something I truly think you'll love." I could see her interest growing. "However. I have to protect myself if you are going to leave the cage. I'm not giving you the paws, but I have a few things for you to put on while we move. They will be removed in the next room. Can you work with me on that?"

The wheels turned in her head. She wanted out so badly, but she was giving up more ground. It took a minute before she spoke. "Can… I see what these things I have to put on are before I make my decision? If I can't…I'd… rather stay in here." She struggled through the last part. In a way she was giving me an ultimatum. I was obviously excited to show her something, but if I didn't offer her a concession she was going to take that away from me.

"Of course! I'll go get what we need and then you can decide." She was surprised to see how readily I agreed. I could see mental math going through her head, wondering if she had somehow made a misstep. She had in a way. Had she just agreed she had the excuse of being forced into whatever I brought her. Surely I would punish her for going back on what she agreed too. But now she got to see what she would be wearing and, after seeing it, would have to say yes. If she wanted out she had to agree to wear what she saw.

Luckily for her I wasn’t offering her anything too hard. I popped into her toy room and came back with a small armful of things. A pair of wrist cuffs, leg cuffs, a harness and a leash. It was pretty barebones.

"Before you say anything, do you want to know why I chose these specifically so you can consider it when making your decision?"

She hesitated but she wanted to understand what might happen. "Ok. What is all… this for?"

I tried to give her a reassuring smile. "The leg cuffs are to hobble your movement a bit. Until we reach the next room you can only take short steps so you can't suddenly run off or run at me. The wrist cuffs will keep your hands behind your back so you can't grab me. The harness is to lead you into the next room and the back here. Each will be removed once we are in the next room.” 

I tried to make this just feel like a conversation between us. Nothing insidious. If anything I was being vulnerable. I had to explain how each piece of equipment was to stop her from hurting me. Sure, the collar worked great to make her think twice. But realistically I could only do so much to defend myself from her if she was out of her cage and unrestrained. I was at risk if she acted out. But it was a conversation that seemed to be assuring her.

“And… I’m only wearing these between the rooms. Then I get to take them off?”

“Except the harness. But that harness isn’t a restraint exactly, its a safety tool. Not only for me, it’s for you as well and you’ll understand it when you see what I want to show you.” There were technically other options than the harness, but it was a safety tool for her. Plus it would be good for her to get used to wearing it.

"I… I'll put them on. Please let me leave the cage for a little while." She was extra polite, I hadn't even needed to ask for it.

I walked her through what to do. I handed her one piece at a time as well as the locks that were meant to be attached. First was the harness. She got it on mostly by herself, but she needed to come near the bars so I could adjust it. I ran my thumb over a part on the back and felt the pieces lock together. I had always had an interest in fun gear, but the things I could buy now still surprised me.

I let her put the cuffs on herself. First her legs. She had a small moment of hesitation as she snapped the locks shut. The soft click seemed very loud to both of us. She didn’t have the keys to them, I was holding them for now. Unlike the harness or the cage or the doors the cuffs had visible locks that required a key. She gave the chain connecting the cuffs a bit of a pull to test how strong it was.

“Feel free to stand and stake some steps, so you know how it’ll feel.” It was cute watching her trying to stand up, she really had no idea what to do with her feet so close together. She used the bars to just pull herself up and take a few shuffling steps. I gave her another smile, I was having a lot of fun. “Do you want some help with the other cuffs? It can be hard when you can’t see what you’re doing.”

“No. I can do it myself.” She sounded a bit embarrassed and irritated. It was adorable. She was acting so independent, she didn’t want help. Of course all that independence was accomplishing was her locking herself away. I liked it this way. It only helped me when she did things to herself. From punishments to rewards everything was because of what she was doing, it was out of my hands.

It took a minute or two of some awkward flailing but I finally heard the soft click of the locks shutting. She was restrained now. I examined my beautiful wolf. It took her a moment to realize it, she was testing the restraints and wasn’t paying attention to me. She blushed a bit when she realized I was looking her over. But she could no longer cover herself. She had given up covering herself surprisingly quickly. After the first day she had stopped trying to cover self at all. But now she was shifting uncomfortably under my gaze, she wanted to cover up but she no longer could.

“You’re very beautiful Sasha.” It was the only thing I was thinking at the time. Sasha was gorgeous. But I was a little surprised that she flinched at my comment. It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t want to hear that from me right now. But it felt like I hit a nerve. I knew enough about Sasha. I knew about her life, her studies and her various other activities. But the people I hired to bring her to me told me they didn’t find any dating history when they were making me a list of people who would notice her disappearance the most.

I mulled it over in my head a bit and mused out loud. “Sasha, has no one ever said that to you before?”

“Can I please leave the cage now? You said I could if I put all of this on and I did.” She was trying to change the subject. She wouldn’t look at me. I found something new I could use. Not something scary to use against her. Something soft and nice. Something she obviously didn’t want to hear, but something I was sure she had always wanted to hear.

“Of course Sasha. Please stand away from the door.” Things became tense between us the moment I unlocked the cell. I was open, but she was too restrained to do much even if she wanted to attack me. I walked in confidently and attached the leash to the ring on the front of her harness. “Follow me. I’ll be walking slowly, try to stay far enough away that the leash stays taut.”

She was visibly more relaxed when she left the cage. It gave me mixed feelings. I loved to see her feel calm and relaxed, but I wanted the cage to be a safe place for rest. But obviously I did something wrong, it wasn’t a relaxing place for her right now. I’d have to consider how to change that.

Restrained or not, she wanted more freedom to move. It wasn’t too far to get to the next room, it was a slow walk though. It’s not like the chain hobbled her, she had enough space to walk slowly. But if she moved too fast she ran the risk of falling over without her arms to stop her from hitting the ground.

“You ready to see my surprise? Or has this been enough already?” I had my hand on the handle, but I was giving her a chance to go back to her cage.

“I-I’m ready.” Her breath caught in her throat. She had no idea what she was going to see. Obviously my ideas of what fun and enjoyable were seemed to be different than what her ideas of them were. For all she knew I had just lied to her and led her into a trap, making her tie herself up just for my own amusement.

“Ok, let’s go in.” I opened the door and walked in, giving the leash a bit of a tug when she hesitated to follow me. I wasn’t sure what her reaction to the room was going to be. But it surprised us both.

“Wow.”

[fengbi]

One Day, Three Autumns: Chapter 3

Pairing: Adrienette Tags: Historical AU, China AU, WWII AU, 1930s AU, drama Summary: Shanghai, 1933.

The world is on the verge of war. Marinette and Adrien fall in love anyway, hoping to beat the odds.

One - Two

As July melted into August, the temperature refused to fall while the atmosphere in the bakery continued to deteriorate. Mama and Popo had reconciled their relationship, though both continued to carefully avoid any mention of France, travelling merchants, and Thomas Dupain himself. Despite that improvement, Marinette felt rather down. To make things worse, business was still slow with the relentless heat and humidity.

The slow, drawling days left Marinette trapped in her own mind, replaying her last encounter with Adrien Agreste over and over, again and again. She had analysed their meeting, then over analysed, and then continued to analyse until it all became meaningless.

A small pebble of guilt had lodged in Marinette’s chest and no matter what she did, no matter how she thought, no matter how she justified it, she couldn’t dislodge it. Even if Adrien was a Frenchman, he had not wronged her in such a manner that warranted the harsh words she’d said to him. It was almost fitting, it seemed, that as soon as Mama and Popo were content Marinette would suffer.

With Mama and Popo having taken over the early morning baking for the time being, Marinette spent her mornings by the harbour with her thread and needle. She was nearly finished with the red swallow she had begun work on months earlier.

As Marinette wove the needle in and out, and in and out, through the fan, the waves crashed against the concrete pillars of the harbour. Some of the bigger waves managed to jump up and tickle the soles of Marinette’s bare feet. Her Mary Janes sat next to her.

In her mind, the red swallow did not exist on her fan; the red swallow fluttered in the air of the harbour. The little bird wove in and out and between the massive passenger ships and cargo ships and the smaller fishing ships. Marinette imagined the swallow perched on a rock that was half submerged, pecked at some seeds that had been dropped by a child earlier. The swallow was free to fly wherever she wished, beholden to nothing and no one.

The sudden tooting of an incoming ship snapped Marinette out of her head. With a wistful smile, Marinette noticed the sky had suddenly grown much brighter. While lost in her thoughts, Marinette had finished stitching her swallow. Sighing contentedly, Marinette tied the end of the thread and bit the thread so it broke off before swinging her legs up, out of the water, and back onto the dock. Her feet were still wet so instead of slipping her shoes back on, Marinette opted to go barefoot and carried her shoes by its straps in one hand. Her other hand clutched her now completed fan. The needle had been poked through the hem of her qipao for safekeeping.

On her way home from the docks, Marinette had to walk through the foreign business sector. It was early enough that very few people were out on the street, though Marinette did see more than a few old white men laughing more loudly than was appropriate as they puffed on their pipes. Some whistled at her; when that happened, Marinette bristled but continued walking with her head down. Oh, how she hated passing through the foreign sector.

After turning the corner onto Huangpu Road, Marinette could see the grand Baroque pillars of the Astor House Hotel up ahead. Unconsciously, Marinette’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly with distaste for the blatant waste the Astor House Hotel represented.

Distracted by the hotel, Marinette didn’t notice a small stone on the path before her. Had she been wearing shoes, she likely wouldn’t have even noticed. But as she was barefoot, her leg buckled from the pain when she stepped on it.

“Hsss, ouch!” Marinette hissed as she rubbed her bare foot against her calf. Luckily, the skin hadn’t broken so there was no risk of infection. Thankfully, too, because Mama could not afford a doctor for her.

“Excuse me, I saw you stumble. Are you alright, miss?” Someone had turned the same corner, just in time to see Marinette stumble on the rock. “Marinette?”

Marinette turned to see none other than Adrien Agreste. “Monsieur Agreste,” she mumbled, unsure of what to say.

Adrien Agreste hadn’t been alone, as a pretty blonde girl was on his arm. “Ah,” she said with the typical air of dominance exerted by foreigners. “I see you know this servant. I’ll head back first,” she said airily. Before she walked off, she gave Adrien two farewell cheek kisses which Marinette watched awkwardly, not sure the appropriate response to witnessing such an intimate moment.

Once she was out of earshot, Adrien grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about her, Chloe’s an old friend.”

At the same time, Marinette snapped, “I am no servant!” Immediately following her outburst, she covered her face with her newly completed fan.

Both stood in silence for a few seconds. Adrien chuckled softly with his hand covering his mouth. Still, he couldn’t muffle the sound of his laughter. Marinette blushed furiously and continued hiding behind her fan.

When Adrien didn’t say anything else, Marinette took a deep breath and lowered her fan slightly. Her cheeks were still burning. “I, er, I thought I should apologize for our last meeting,” Marinette said awkwardly, in French. “Please don’t report me to the French embassy….” she added as an afterthought, as the full extent of the consequences of offending a foreigner occurred to her.

“Oh,” Adrien said. For a few seconds, he said nothing, unsure of what to say. “I, er, actually, I was going to apologize. I realized you were right, as we are not friends and I had no right to expect such favours from you. I hope you will accept my apology, Miss Marinette.”

The only response Marinette could think of was: “So you won’t report me to the embassy?”

Adrien blinked, clearly expecting Marinette to say something else -- perhaps even snap at him again. “Why would I report you to the embassy? You have done nothing wrong.”

“I live in the French Concession, Monsieur. I am governed by both the laws of Shanghai and France. You could report me to the embassy and have me tried by the French Consular Court.”

“Why, why that’s unreasonable!” Adrien’s expression clearly indicated this was the first time he had ever heard of the French court.

Marinette smiled bitterly. “The law is the law. What Europeans say becomes the law. It is how it is.”

“But that’s absurd!”

“Perhaps,” Marinette said thoughtfully, looking distractedly at a post behind Adrien’s shoulder. “But more than a few of my neighbours have been tried and convicted by the French courts. It has been decided that a French life is worth more than a Chinese life, that a white life is worth more than a yellow life, and so we live under such conditions.”

“That....that’s…” unable to find words to voice his thoughts, Adrien opened and closed his fist. A new understanding dawned on his face. “You have enlightened me to many truths, Mademoiselle. If I may be so forward, I would like to escort you home. In exchange, I would like to learn more about such truths.”

Finally lowering her fan, Marinette nodded.

Though the walk back to her bakery was uneventful, Marinette realized she had developed a newfound respect for Adrien Agreste. Adrien did not ask any more political questions (unbeknownst to Marinette, Adrien had not wanted to upset her any further), instead asking about the names of the streets they passed and the history of the owners of the small stores they passed.

“Quai de France….that sounds very French,” Adrien remarked as he pointed at a very French road sign they passed. “There is a road in Grenoble, in the south of France, with the very same name. Quai de France…”

“Perhaps because it was named by France,” Marinette quipped.

“What was it called before?”

“This road was built by the French. Although, I’ve heard rumours of some who want to rename it Zhongshan Road someday.”

“Are you one of those people?” Adrien asked, genuinely curious as his turned to face Marinette.

Marinette bit her lip, thinking of what to say. “I...do not know yet. But I do know that I would like to see a Chinese name up there, someday.”

When Adrien dropped Marinette off at the front of her bakery, he grinned.

“I have to thank you, Marinette. I have learned so much from you that I could never have known otherwise!” Adrien was looking directly at Marinette, and she shivered from his gaze.

“I found it quite enjoyable as well,” Marinette smiled back, still somewhat tentatively. “I do not have the chance to speak French often and conversing with you has been quite pleasant.”

Marinette turned away from Adrien, about to enter her bakery when Adrien said, “wait!”

Stiffly, Marinette turned her head to give Adrien a questioning look.

“It’s quite greedy of me, really,” Adrien said bashfully, cheeks tinted red. Despite his shyness, Adrien continued to look Marinette in the eye. “Could we be friends, Miss Marinette? I don’t have many friends and I really did enjoy your company today.”

Marinette beamed. “I think I would not mind being your friend, Monsieur Agreste.”

The silence between the two stretched out for a few moments, both happily revelling in the presence of their newfound friend.

At the time, Marinette didn’t realize, but the pebble of guilt in her chest had finally dislodged and disappeared.

~~~

“Mei Mei,” Popo said, frowning, from the doorway of the kitchen. “Come.” Popo left just as suddenly as she had appeared.

Marinette shuddered. Nothing good came from an unhappy Popo. Wiping her flour dusted hands on her apron, Marinette followed. She followed Popo into their tiny tea room, where Popo had prepared a pot of chrysanthemum tea.

“Popo,” Marinette greeted, eyes focused on her hands. Her fingers picked at the dried bits of dough that clung to her skin and stuck under hei nails. “Is something wrong.”

Focused on pouring the tea, Popo said nothing at first. After she had taken a long sip from her cup, Popo fixed Marinette with an unimpressed glare. “Cheng Mei Yi, I have been hearing the neighbours speak of you.”

Marinette gulped, blowing on her own tea. Though she wasn’t sure what exactly Popo was angry about, she did know that she was about to be on the receiving end of a long lecture. Popo only used Marinette’s full name when Popo was extremely displeased.

“They say you have been speaking with a foreigner.”

Marinette should have known that it would take no time for Popo to find out about Adrien. Old ladies were notorious gossipers and Popo was the worst.

“Cheng Mei Yi,” Popo said, glowering at Marinette, “must I remind you of what trash foreigners are? They are lazy and brainless, knowing nothing of the value of hard work. They think themselves above us. Us! The people of the middle kingdom.”

“Yes, Popo,” Marinette kept her eyes downcast, studying the stains on her apron.

“Honestly, do you forget all our difficulties because your father is a good for nothing foreigner? Once a year, the man comes and traipses through the door as if he belongs here. Here, in our home! He does not even bow in respect! Such insolence and disrespect. No grandchild of mine should suffer through such injustices!” Seeing Marinette’s lower lip quiver, Popo softened her tone. “Mei Mei,” Popo reached out to rest her hands over Marinette’s hands were closed around her tea cup and set the cup gently down on the table, “Popo is just worried about you. Outsiders are never to be trusted. They do not understand the beauty of our culture, of our people.”

Smiling shakily, Marinette thought quickly to shift the brunt of Popo’s anger onto someone else. She said, “yes Popo. I understand. I’m sorry. He just came up to me and asked to walk with me and I was too scared to reject him. I didn’t want him to complain to the embassy!” Marinette rubbed her eyes, pretending to wipe away tears.

“Aiya! Mei Mei, don’t touch your face with your hands! Hands are dirty!” Popo chided, her earlier anger now dissipated. “My poor darling, this is why we must beware those outsiders.” Leaning forward, Popo stroked Marinette cheeks with her wrinkled hands. “Be careful when you go outside, Mei Mei. You never know when those foreigners will ruin you. They are moraless monsters. Promise me, you will be careful.”

“Yes, Popo. I promise.” Marinette couldn’t quite meet her grandmother’s eyes as she spoke.

~~~

Adrien was distracted. He was seated with his father and Natalie, who were discussing fine silk and kudzu cloth with the Chinese merchant seated across the table.

“The silk is fine, but this kudzu cloth looks no different the threads used by the peasantry. It is far too rough and coarse for the fine ladies and gentlemen of Paris,” Gabriel Agreste said, unimpressed. He pushed his glasses up his nose, glaring down at the poor merchant.

“This is very, very good cloth,” the merchant insisted. “Very sturdy, look very foreign. Kudzu cloth is very exotic, will be sold for very high price in Europe!

“I must discuss with my son before any deal may pass. Leave us.” Adrien winced internally as he watched the Chinese merchant bow at ninety degrees before showing himself out.

Though it had been nearing three weeks since he had become Marinette’s friend, that conversation often replayed itself in Adrien’s head. Adrien found that he was beginning to see many of his daily interactions in a new light. When he first joined his father during his business meetings in Shanghai, Adrien took no notice to how people merely bowed at his feet, how people near begged for his business. When Adrien thought back to his first meeting, he had been grouchy and uncomfortable and very difficult. At the time, he had thought nothing more of snapping at, then threatening, the Chinese server who asked if he wanted water. At the time, the Chinese server was bothering him, grating on his nerves.

But now, with the knowledge from Marinette, he was uncomfortable with the person he had been. Just as Adrien was now uncomfortable with how his father treated the poor Chinese merchant who only wished to make a living to feed his family. In France, Gabriel Agreste was known for his short temper and high expectations and Adrien had never given a second thought to the consequences. He almost never saw his father, anyway, so what did it matter who Gabriel Agreste shoved to the ground and stepped on?

As it turned out, it mattered a lot. Because now that he had a new friend in Marinette, everyone he had no given a second glance at before suddenly became people. People with lives and dreams and struggles and worries and Adrien wasn’t entirely sure he liked this change.

“Adrien,” Gabriel Agreste snapped.

“Father?” Adrien was yanked from his thoughts.

“You respond when you are addressed, boy.”

“Yes, Father,” Adrien looked down, unwilling to meet his father’s perpetually icy stare. “I apologize.”

“As I was saying,” Gabriel Agreste continued, “I do not believe kudzu cloth to be of any value. Exotic peasant cloth is still peasant cloth and will not sell. No man of status would be seen looking at such shoddy workmanship.”

Feeling sympathetic to the merchant, Adrien attempted to sway his father’s decision. “Father, could it be possible to buy a small amount, just to feel out how it will be received? Just one bolt, and if it is so unappealing the remaining fabric can be used to uniform our staff.”

“Nonsense,” Gabriel snapped. “My staff will not seen donning the garb of peasants.”

“Monsieur Agreste,” Natalie interjected, a rare occasion. “Forgive me, but I agree with the young Monsieur. This kudzu is inexpensive and I see no harm to one bolt. Should kudzu be as unpopular as you say, we may use it to train new workers on the machinery. It is cheaper than the scrap cotton currently in use.”

Gabriel was silent, still, unused to having anyone voice their dissent. Adrien rubbed his hands on his trousers, trying to ease the clamminess of his palms. “Father?” Adrien said, tentatively, when Gabriel still had not responded after a full minute. “I will take full responsibility should kudzu be a drastic failure.”

“Pah,” Gabriel Agreste sniffed in disdain. “As though a failure could be anything other than a failure. Failure matters little when it is tied to the Agreste name. Very well, we will purchase a small amount of kudzu.” He paused to glower at Adrien. “Let this be a lesson, Adrien. Should this be a mistake, know that failure is not taken lightly.”

Gulping, Adrien said, “Yes, Father.” Beads of sweat dotted the back of Adrien’s neck, though the late August heat was likely not the sole cause for his perspiration.

Banging his fist on the table, Gabriel Agreste called for the Chinese merchant to return. Adrien flinched at the brusque mannerisms of his father.

Within the minute, the Chinese scrambled back into the room. He stood behind his vacated seat and bowed, but made no motion to sit. “Mister Agreste, sir, have you reached a decision?”

Adrien thought Gabriel Agreste’s permanent frown seemed to deepen as he spoke. “I firmly believe this kudzu cloth is the garb of peasants. However, my son believes your kudzu cloth is worth my investment. We will order 50 yards of this kudzu, with an additional 200 bolts of silk in assorted colours. I would like to inspect the colours you have available, before this deal goes through.”

“Of course, Mister Agreste,” the merchant maintained his professional demeanor, but Adrien noticed how the deep lines on the merchant’s forehead had lightened significantly. “Come, I will take you to see the cloth.”

After the door had closed behind Gabriel Agreste’s back, Natalie chuckled. When Adrien gave her a questioning glance, she explained, “It is amusing how eager the chinetoque are to serve.”

“I was under the impression he was a merchant? Is he not a businessman?” Adrien asked, expression carefully masking his confusion.

“This one claims to be a merchant,” Natalie said, finely manicured nails tapping against her thick agenda. As a personal assistant, Natalie was not paid a spectacular wage, though working in the employ of Gabriel Agreste gave her access to some boons of the wealthy. First and foremost, Natalie represented the Agreste image and as such, Gabriel Agreste spared to penny to ensure she looked the role. “Yet, you see how he acts, how he grovels, how he begs and bows, and he is evidently in the wrong profession. The man would make a fine servant, just like all the Chinamen. The chinetoque were made to serve; it is a mystery how their farce of a government attempt to claim independence. How would they fare, without the support of Europe?”

Adrien nodded. Natalie’s explanation made much sense to him and explained some of Marinette’s odd mannerisms as well. How she often bowed as though Adrien was royalty, how she served him egg tarts, how Marinette was so often running errands.

The Chinese, it seemed, were very much everything that Europeans were not.

~~~

“Alya, what is it like in France?”

Alya stood on a basket in Marinette’s room, arms spread, while Marinette ducked under Alya’s arms to cinch the waist of Alya’s dress.

But Alya was too sharp minded to simply brush Marinette’s question as passing curiosity. With her eyes narrowed suspiciously, Alya responded with a question of her own. “Marinette, since when did the conditions of France concern you?”

Focused on her needle weaving in and out mere centimeters from Alya’s flesh, Marinette couldn’t see the suspicion Alya had levelled towards her. “This is the French Concession. Are the laws as unfair in France as they are here?”

“Marinette,” Alya said, after a brief pause. “You hate France. You cringe at the mere mention of Europe. You never talk about the whites.”

Alya couldn’t see Marinette’s expression, but Alya could feel how Marinette’s fingers briefly loosened their grasp on Alya’s dress.

Marinette never responded to Alya. She simply kept her mouth shut and finished the back stitching on Alya’s dress. “It’s done,” Marinette said, stepping back to critique how the dress now flowed along Alya’s figure in the mirror.

Alya would have none of Marinette’s evasiveness. “Marinette, I know you well enough to know you are the absolute worst at lying. Now spill.” Alya crossed her arms and made no move to step down from the bucket.

Sighing, Marinette took a seat on the bamboo sheet on her bed. Suddenly, she was exhausted though the sun had just barely reached its peak. “It’s not much. I’ve just been thinking…” her words drifted off.

Expectantly, Alya stared at Marinette.

“My father visited.” Marinette stared back. “I’d much rather be fatherless, than have one like him.”

“You never cared before,” Alya quipped.

“I didn’t,” Marinette acknowledged. Her hands were becoming restless so she moved to tuck her needle and thread back into her sewing box. “I’m not sure if I care now. But...” Marinette swallowed. Her throat was suddenly dry. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a passing curiosity. It might be nice to know about those I hate?”

Accepting Marinette’s confusion, Alya finally stepped down from the stool. “Well, remember that you wouldn’t know me if it wasn’t for the French,” Alya joked with a wink.

Laughing, Marinette listened to Alya jabber on about the crazy antics her sisters had gotten into. Though she was attentive, Marinette couldn’t help but think about France. She hadn’t expected Alya to question her sudden interest but now that Alya had, Marinette realized how ridiculous it was to ask about France.

After all, kind words would never excuse a bloodthirsty, greedy nature.

~~~

“Marinette!” Adrien called as soon as he saw Marinette standing on the harbour. When Marinette didn’t indicate that she heard him, he called out again, louder. “Marinette!”

This time, Marinette turned. Though reserved, Marinette smiled when she saw Adrien jogging towards her.

“Monsieur Agreste,” Marinette bowed in greeting once Adrien reached her spot by the water.

“Hello Marinette!” Adrien chirped, bright grin on his face. “You know, you’re not my servant, right? You don’t have to bow at me.”

Marinette’s smile immediately melted into a frown. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to bow when you see me,” Adrien said, still grinning cheerfully. “You’re not my servant or anything, so we’re equals!”

“I am well aware that I am not your servant, Monsieur Agreste.” Marinette continued to frown, not sure what Adrien was trying to say.

“So you don’t have to bow.”

Blinking, Marinette said, “Why would I not bow? I mean you no disrespect.”

Now confused, Adrien stared blankly at Marinette. “Disrespect? Is it an insult if you don’t bow?”

“Of course!” Suddenly, Marinette’s eyes brightened, understanding dawning upon her. “I do not know what you do in France, but bowing is a sign of respect.”

“Wait,” Adrien’s eyes widened, the gears turning his in mind. “So everyone bows here? To show respect?”

Before Marinette could respond, a sudden strong breeze hit. Though most of Marinette’s long locks were pulled into twin braids, the wind pulled some of shorter strands out and blew them in her face. Calmly tucking her loose locks behind her ears, Marinette answered Adrien. “Of course! Why else would we bow?”

“Er,” Adrien looked out to the horizon, a shameful blush dusting his cheeks.

With narrowed eyes, Marinette prompted Adrien to respond in a harsher tone. “Well?”

“I, er,” Adrien stumbled over his words, unsure how best to explain himself. “Well, see, in France, servants bow to their masters…” Adrien drifted off, hoping Marinette would understand the words he didn’t say.

Sure enough, Marinette did understand. Glaring, Marinette said, “You believed us, an entire nation, to be slaves?”

Adrien stepped back with raised hands and tried to justify himself. “Uh, in fairness, the Chinese are very willing to work for us!”

Scoffing, Marinette crossed her arms. Though she was quite a bit shorter than Adrien, and had little meat on her bones, Adrien found himself mildly terrified of an angry Marinette. In a carefully controlled voice, Marinette snapped, “We serve because we fear the French consulate and its unfair repercussions. How narrow minded -- to think we want to be controlled by whites!”

Marinette’s voice was quiet, for fear of being overheard, but Adrien shivered nevertheless.

With her arms still crossed angrily, Marinette faced the open sea and turned her back on Adrien.

Adrien stared at Marinette���s back, wracking his mind for something to say. Anything, to rectify the hole he had dug himself into. Marinette’s qipao framed the tense muscles of her back perfectly, clearly indicating her fury to Adrien as if her crossed arms and expression hadn’t been enough.

“Marinette…” Adrien trailed off when Marinette turned around to focus her glare on him.

“What.” Marinette said softly, anger still evident in her quiet voice.

“I, er --” Adrien gulped when Marinette’s glare didn’t relent. He sighed, “I don’t know what to say, Marinette, only that I’m sorry for assuming. I was never taught that China had different customs, see.”

“So you just assume?”

“Well...I suppose it never occurred to me otherwise. So I guess I did assume?” Adrien’s voice faltered slightly. “I just...I don’t have an excuse Marinette. It was a mistake and narrow minded and unfair to think those things about you. But I want to try to make it right and if you’re willing, I would like to learn more about your customs.”

At first, Marinette said nothing, simply closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. Bristling, Adrien waited for her to scoff at him and reject him outright.

Instead, after a few more breaths Marinette opened her eyes. Though there was no hint of a smile, Marinette’s eyes softened. “I am still very angry,” Marinette said, voice tense and controlled, “but I respect that you acknowledge your wrongs.”

Turning back to face Adrien, Marinette looked straight into his eyes as she finished her words. Before Adrien could formulate any sort of response, Marinette bowed. Her waist was bent at exactly 90 degrees.

Adrien didn’t entirely understand what bowing meant to Marinette, but he took it as an acceptance of his apology. Tentatively, Adrien leaned forward, mimicking Marinette’s ninety degree bow.

He didn’t know what exactly his bow would say to Marinette, but Adrien hoped that Marinette would understand it was his way of showing his earnestness and sincerity.

Marinette did see Adrien bow from the corner of her eyes and though he couldn’t see it, Marinette did smile, ever so slightly.

Oh boy I don't know what I'm doing anymore sos

So bowing was a super big deal in China but nowadays it's not really practiced. There are a few situations like when major officials apologize and bow as a sign of humility but you almost never see it in everyday life. Bowing fell out of favour after 1911, before this fic, but because China is a traditional society, I'm making the assumption that bowing didn't completely fall out of favour until the Cultural Revolution.

I'm also making a lot of liberties with Alya's role in this fic but ;w;

Chinetoque is a derogatory French term for Chinese people. Chinaman is another derogatory term.

Kudzu is a a plant native to Eastern and Southeast Asia that is used to make cloth, baskets, and paper. A bolt of fabric equals 100 yards of fabric so Gabriel buying 50 yards is only half a bolt.

Finally, Quai de France is a real street in Shanghai. It's been since renamed Zhongshan Road (as mentioned by Marinette) in honour of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen. In the simplest explanation possible, he's the guy who overthrew Imperial rule and made China a "republic". There's a lot of technicalities and details that explanation overlooks though so if you're interested, feel free to ask :3

The French concession is what they called the part of Shanghai under French rule and the French consular court was a real thing. Technically, because Marinette is Chinese Adrien would have to go to the International Mixed Court but that was abolished in 1930.

And I think that covers all the non-common knowledge in this chapter phew :3

Please like and/or reblog if you liked it!!

[winterverses]

Witchfire

Chapter Two

The plains, so dry in summer, were a clouded, stormy expanse of creeks and pools and waterlogged paths in the rainy season. I could barely stand the thought of it, and seeing the landscape I would soon have to cross, I shrank into Balthier’s side, flinching at the first few drops of rain. I didn’t know if I could do this. I’d almost opened my mouth to say so when he spoke.

“Nothing to worry about, Lysa,” he said, his arm coming around me as familiarly as it did with Fran. She was nowhere to be seen, that having been one of the concessions I’d made. I couldn’t afford the both of them, not even in two more years. I wouldn’t have been able to afford Balthier if he hadn’t allowed that since he’d known my brother, he would lower his price. It was still every coin I had and a few that I didn’t have, yet. “Cross the plains, get the Serpent Rod, and then back home to your studies.”

I still wasn’t sure about this. If I could have afforded both of them, I would have paid in a second. Fran had bidden us goodbye back in Rabanastre, just outside the imposing stone gates that led into the city. Neither of them had seemed to mind the cool, wet wind that blew in from the Giza plains. I’d been there in the dry season, of course, but never the wet season, and even that gentle misty wind felt like it pierced me to the bone.

Before they parted, there had been a moment where Fran and Balthier had shared a look that filled me with both curiosity and envy. Their eyes had met, and he’d smiled a little, a true smile, not the smirk that I had so often seen curving his lips. Fran’s impassive mask had softened, not an answering smile but a warmth that reminded me of the comforting, joyous feel of my fire.

“I will be waiting. As always.” That warmth had flickered just underneath Fran’s customary solemn tone.

“I know,” Balthier answered. It would have sounded like a cocky rejoinder unless one was paying attention, and though I had tried to hide it by checking the straps on my pack, all my attention was definitely on them.

The moment had evaporated, though I’d felt as if a hint of it lingered. They were so clearly close that it felt wrong to ask them to separate. There had been no hesitance in Balthier’s actions, however, and Fran had gone back to being as detached as I had come to know her to be.

As we’d said our farewells, Fran had looked down at me, her eyes faintly amused, and then back to Balthier. “Enjoy yourselves,” she’d said.

I hadn’t been able to muster an agreeable reply to that. “I’ll try,” I’d said, unable to help the unhappy set of my mouth or the dubious look in my eyes. Water everywhere. I was fine if it was contained in a bath or a jug or even a rain barrel, but water all over everything? It just wasn’t natural.

Shaking myself back to the present, I eyed the scene in front of me. Little rills of water ran over the grass near the creek bed. All of the little gullies had turned into streams. Not a single leaf that didn’t droop under the weight of the water pouring from the dark clouds above. The fire inside me shrank away from it all. “I can do this,” I said softly, though every nerve in me strained away from the wet. Water everywhere. I made myself speak louder, more firmly, hoping it would trick me into feeling more confident. “Let’s go. I can’t stand here waiting for it.” The very earth was soaked, damping me back, cutting me off from the elemental fire that always danced in my guts, along my spine.

“Too right,” Balthier said. With his arm still encircling me, he stepped forward, bringing me along into the wet.

That first day passed mostly in silence. We hunted, the both of us, speaking to each other in gestures and soft words. The great, scaled croakadiles that were our prey were rare and hard to find, their bulging bodies and huge tracks notwithstanding. They were the only ones that dropped the Serpent Rod, however, and so we had no choice but to search them out. More than once we found ourselves tracking our way to a dead end, the footprints disappearing into a stream or washed away by the omnipresent water. The sky weighed heavy above me, pregnant with storm, and the rain fell so thickly that at times one could barely see. Indeed, I was surprised when Balthier called a halt that first day; I could see no difference in the grey skies above.

“It’s late. We’ll hunt better with some rest,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby bluff that had an overhang, the sheltered base of it nearly dry despite the incessant rain. “Let’s make camp.”

I did not protest. I would never have admitted it, but the rain was taking its toll on me already. It was something I’d been prepared to face, the weakness once I was cut off from my element, but I wondered whether the Sisters knew how much of an effort this would be for me. Wordlessly, I helped to set up the shelter, using the tiny bit of my gift that I could find to dry the soaked grasses to crackling beneath our feet and prepare a warm space where we could sleep. We each had our bedrolls, and we each laid them out in the tiny space, side by side, near the small fire I was able to start even with the damp wood that was the only fuel we could find.

Once we had eaten and were settled in for the night, Balthier sat back on his bedroll, his eyes fixed on me across the warming, welcome fire. “You’re still tense,” he said, his eyes raking me over. I’d dressed more practically for an excursion, with an oiled hood and cloak and well-worn leather armor that had been my mother’s, but his gaze made me feel somehow uncovered.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, and then regretted my harshness. “It’s hard. Harder, anyway. The fire is usually so close, and now it feels so far away.” I couldn’t keep the longing from my voice. The little glow across from me was comforting, but not enough. I could plunge my hands into the fire and still I would barely feel it.

“I see,” he murmured, his hand dropping to the butt of his gun. I’d seen that gun applied to great effect today, the few times we’d run across some predatory creature. He freed it from the holster, checking it over and then breaking it down, using a soft rag and some oil from one of his pouches to clean it.  “Is this what you expected?”

“Yes,” I said, shifting over toward the lee of the bluff. That it brought me closer to him was only happenstance. “Actually, it’s why I’m here. It’s a trial, of sorts. If I can survive this, then I’ll be ready to go further with my studies.” I looked away from him, staring out into the inimical rain. “I’ve always been able to feel it. The fire, I mean. Here… it’s so hard to reach.” I forced a grin, my unease clear even to me. “That’s why, though. If I can’t do this, then all the attunement in the world to one element is useless.”

“Even in theoretical studies?” Balthier asked, and I could see the genuine curiosity in his eyes. He raised himself on an elbow. “I’d think such a strong gift would be a boon no matter the circumstances.”

“That strong gift leaves me weak elsewhere,” I said, my voice edged. The fire snapped as if punctuating my words. “They teach us that we all trade strengths for weaknesses, but I would rather try to have greater and lesser strengths.” I laughed softly. “Or to at least know how to deal with my weaknesses.”

He paused in his work, his fingers absently stroking the barrel of his gun. His eyes caught mine, holding them until he looked back down. “A very practical outlook to have,” he finally said, putting his gun back together. “Doesn’t that make having me here a little like cheating?”

I pulled back, momentarily stung, and then saw the quirk of his lips and the taunting glimmer in his eyes. I wouldn’t let him needle me like that. “There are many ways to protect one’s self. I simply chose one that involved less magic than money.” I sniffed, running a hand through my drying hair, fluffing it the way I’d seen some noblemen’s daughters do at the abbey.

After a long moment, he laughed, his fingers moving to put the gun back together as if independent of the rest of him, so accustomed to the motions they were. “Well said,” he chuckled, his lips curved in a smile that left me feeling flutters in my stomach. “And since that’s the case, I’ll let you take first watch tonight. The creatures here shouldn’t trouble us at this hour, but wake me if you need me.” He pulled the cover of his bedroll out from underneath him and wrapped himself in it, settling his head on the scant pillow.

I watched him fall asleep immediately, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and I envied him all the while. Pulling off my armor piece by piece, I oiled it and worked it, watching the rain fall not two feet away from my face. And when it came time for his watch, he was awake instantly, as if he hadn’t been sleeping at all. “Your turn,” I said softly, moving to my bedroll and wrapping myself in the thin blankets. The wet air seeped through them, making me shiver.

“Sleep well, fireball,” Balthier said, and the next thing I knew, he’d thrown the covers of his bedroll over me as well, the warmth of his body and the smell of his skin protecting me from the crawling damp. It took forever for me to calm my racing heart enough to sleep.

[knowledgewiki]

UK visa refusal on V 4.2 a + c (and sometimes ‘e’)

Many of the UK visa refusals we see here share a common pattern and the prevailing reasons refer to V 4.2 (a) and (c).

I do understand that, while the applicants may describe very different individual circumstances, there’s a consistent pattern and, broadly, fall into specific categories:

Credibility (lifestyle, lack of ties, visit history, lies & omissions)

Funding (insufficient funds, provenance of funds, funds parking)

Sponsorship (family, friends, employer)

Question: What most commonly triggers a UK visa refusal where V 4.2 (a) and (c) are given as the grounds?

Secondarily: Given that there is a clear pattern, to what extent are these refusals predictable? Does sponsorship make a difference? Is there a set of personal circumstances, however abstract, where a refusal is all but guaranteed? For example, why do those we see here on TSE who sought entry for the PLAB or British Army appear to be refused with a common theme? Is there a uniform shortcoming or is it just discrimination?

PLAB: What is about applications for a visa, for the purpose of sitting the Professional and Linguistic Assessments Board (PLAB) exam, that seem to invite refusals. After all, the test is given so that international medical graduates can show that they qualify to practise medicine in the UK. The first part, PLAB 1, can be taken in centres outside of the UK. However, PLAB 2 can be taken only in the UK. Why can’t you can’t get a visa just to sit the exam, promising that you’ll leave immediately after?

British Army: Since Commonwealth citizens are eligible to apply online to join, even those who don’t reside in the UK, why is it so difficult to get a visa just to attend an interview to see whether you are suitable? Even with an invitation from the Army, such visa applications seem to be unsuccessful. Isn’t a career in the British Army a valid reason?

Lastly: After such a refusal, what approaches would increase the chance of a successful application?

1 Answer

You applied for a Standard Visitor Visa and received a refusal. Your refusal notice provided an explanation and referred to Paragraphs V 4.2 (a) and (c) (and sometimes sub paragraph ‘e’). This is a distressing incident and often provokes feelings of confusion or anger or frustration. These feelings can be amplified upon learning that there is no path available for appeal or administrative review.

Can I call the Entry Clearance Officer (ECO) and sort this out?

The immediate reaction for many people is something along the lines of: “It’s something simple, they just took something the wrong way, I’ll call them and sort things out.“

But no. Categorically no. Not a chance. Since 2006, ECO’s have been ring-fenced against engaging with the public and they are not permitted to reverse a decision anyway. Let’s look at this extract from Paragraph 27…

An application for entry clearance is to be decided in the light of the circumstances existing at the time of the decision…

This is taken to mean what the applicant wrote on their application and the evidence they provided (and the courts have supported this interpretation). If the ECO is minded to refuse and thinks that a single piece of evidence will prevent a refusal, they will contact the applicant and ask for it. But the refusals we’re talking about in this article are well beyond where a single piece of evidence can prevent a refusal.

How did this happen?

The current visitor rules were hammered out in a private consultation between UKVI and the UK legal community in 2014. There were several rounds of drafts circulated and each round resulted in concessions and improvements. When both sides were happy (i.e., fair, accessible, and consistent), the rules were activated in April 2015. They are published in Appendix V of the Immigration Rules, and we strongly endorse a careful read of the material.

Visa applications are opened in the mail room by an Entry Clearance Assistant (ECA) and a witness. Two persons are required. Each application is entered into Proviso (UKVI’s tracking system) along with an enumeration of what evidence has been provided. Once entered into Proviso, more ECA’s get involved to examine the evidence and perform research on the applicant’s circumstances. This is the stage where ECA’s may contact the applicant’s bank and employer. They will also run the biometrics and look at relevant databases. ECA’s are local hires who speak the language and know the local customs. They generally aspire to obtaining a British passport through service to the Crown and, accordingly, they are thorough and detail-oriented.

Eventually the application will appear on the Entry Clearance Officer’s (ECO) Proviso screen. ECO’s have a mandate from Parliament to issue as many visas as possible because it helps the British economy. They also have a mandate from the Crown to make the final decision on a visitor application.

He will spend somewhere between 40 to 120 seconds examining the application and reaching a decision. Or he can send it back to the ECA’s for more research. If the ECO decides that a refusal is justified, the application will be routed to the Entry Clearance Manager (ECM, the highest ranking official in the Visa Section).

The ECM can uphold or reverse the refusal. If a regulated solicitor has represented the application, he may contact them with a few questions and get some clarifications. If he upholds the refusal decision, the application will be routed to the ECA’s who will use ‘speed codes’ to compose the refusal notice.

The end result is that the refusal notice, along with all the materials originally submitted, is returned to the applicant. Somewhere near the end of the notice are the legal grounds for the refusal. These visas do not have appeal rights or administrative review pathways.

Predictability

Applicants are surprised to learn that the largest bulk of refusals were predictable from the outset. It means the application was visibly doomed before the person even arrived at the VFS to give their biometrics. This can be said because the application has one or more of these:

Obvious (and severe) evidential shortfalls that are needed to establish the applicant’s (or sponsor’s) personal circumstances; or

A misconceived premise that undermines the applicant’s credibility; or

A naive and plainly-visible attempt to conceal something; or

a lifestyle that belies the applicant’s intent; or

A ploy or gambit attempting to enhance the applicant’s personal circumstances (e.g., funds parking).

Most commonly the applicant’s premise and evidence conform to a pattern that can be recognised early on as a sure bet for refusal. UKVI likes to use the grounds V 4.2 (a) and (c) for their refusals in these situations. Sometimes they will bolt on sub paragraph ‘e’ (insufficient funds), but this is usually icing on the cake rather than an immediate concern.

Appendix V, Paragraphs V 4.2 (a) and (c)

These refer respectively to:

(a) will leave the UK at the end of their visit; and

(c) is genuinely seeking entry for a purpose that is permitted by the visitor routes (these are listed in Appendices 3, 4 and 5).

To summarise, they have concluded that the applicant is not a genuine visitor and is likely to go underground and abuse their visa. We see this occur variously in articles like UK visitor visa refused due to length of prior stay:

They got you on V 4.2 (a) + (c), which is their way of saying that they think you might have a secondary agenda of absconding your visa and going underground. Your next application will need to use extra diligence to assure that their concerns are fully explained.

Another way of putting it shows up in UK Visit Visa refusal — need advice on next step:

The ECO concluded that you and your husband would go underground once you arrived in the UK, this is implicit from taking the refusal grounds in context (V 4.2 (a) & (c)).

They reach this conclusion from the items listed above in “Predictability.” It’s a serious refusal. The rest of this article explains how they reach this decision.

Funds Parking, Lifestyle, and Credibility

A starting point for understanding how bank statements affect the decision process is in the article: “Should I submit bank statements when applying for a UK Visa? What do they say about me?“

This article explains that one of the common, but disastrous, strategies applicants use is the so-called ‘funds parking‘ strategy (which is given a full discussion here).

The article also explains one of the pitfalls where the applicant is fixated on presenting a final balance and is blind to the fact that bank statements provide a window into the applicant’s lifestyle and social commitments. See Twice UK business visitor visa refusal because of large deposit, what next? where the answer says:

Showing a hefty bank balance is helpful, but it’s only about 20% of what they are looking for. A much heavier weight, say 80%, is given to periodic, predictable flows in and out of the account that show a durable economic connection to your base, in your case Egypt… They got you on V 4.2 (a) and (c) on both applications. In this context it means they concluded that you were not a bona fide applicant and that would most likely go underground when you got here…

ECO’s determine how much is needed by examining the applicant’s premise and there is no specific amount needed to apply successfully. Even applicants with low balances can succeed when they exhibit a stable and connected lifestyle.

Provenance of Funds

Having a great set of bank statements is not enough to ensure success because the ECO needs to determine if the funds have been lawfully obtained and are lawfully in the applicant’s possession. We call this ‘provenance of funds’ and it is explained in this article: are there hidden requirements for UK visa applications?

Where provenance is likely to be questioned, applicants should include their employment contract or their tax returns or some other convincing evidence. They will strenuously object to lame excuses like “I don’t have those things because blah blah blah and (insert some lame excuse here)“. Genuine visitors are able to establish provenance quite easily.

Having a sponsor does not eliminate the need to establish provenance and a lot of people seem to miss this point. The ECO is entitled to think that the sponsor is a drug dealer or an illicit importer or a criminal and it’s the applicant’s job to convince him otherwise. So the sponsor should submit his employment contract or tax returns in the same way the applicant does. This is a major single point-of-failure for many applicants relying on sponsorship.

Applicants who fail to establish that their funds have been legally obtained will invariably incur disappointment. If the sponsor is reluctant to establish provenance, then don’t apply!

Moving on, the same article contains this text:

Within the same money laundering/provenance of funds regime, they also have a list of banks they don’t like. If somebody submits statements from one of those banks (or they figure out that somebody has an account at one of those banks), then the app will be refused (and they will use a different reason so that their sources are not compromised).

There are some banks that violate money laundering rules or otherwise engage in illegal activities and submitting statements from these banks is fatal. The global list is beyond scope here, but a representative list of acceptable banks for Bangladesh is at Updated list of financial institutions for UK visa applications in Bangladesh. The list is qualified to PBS applicants, but the contents are directly transferable to visit visa applications.

Sponsorship Issues

Refused applicants have often made the assumption that having a sponsor eliminates the need to demonstrate that they qualify. This is not true and, in many cases, needing a sponsor actually increases the onus on the applicant to demonstrate that they qualify.

How can this be? To understand this paradox, return to Paragraphs (a) and (c) again and note that neither of them is contingent on having access to money. Indeed, having access to money is covered in Paragraph (e):

must have sufficient funds to cover all reasonable costs in relation to their visit without working or accessing public funds. This includes the cost of the return or onward journey, any costs relating to dependants, and the cost of planned activities such as private medical treatment.

…which is rarely mentioned at all in most refusals! So it’s not about the money and it doesn’t matter how wealthy the sponsor is or how much money they are willing to commit; the onus never leaves the applicant to demonstrate that they qualify. See UK visitor visa refused (multiple sponsors) for an example which says:

This refusal cites Paragraphs V 4.2 (a) and (c) of the rules… You can see that they did not challenge your daughter’s capacity for sponsorship, they accepted her sponsorship without question. But having a credible sponsor does not alleviate the applicant’s burden of meeting the rules.

The ECO is also entitled to be mindful of the sponsor’s relationship to the applicant and why the sponsor is willing to undertake a large expenditure of no apparent benefit to them. This is especially true, for example, if the applicant has siblings who have never had sponsorship. When there is no history of a grandparent or parent sponsoring other family members and a single person is going to benefit, the motivation should be carefully explained.

ECO’s are especially wary where there is a sudden appearance of a “long-lost uncle” who is making a disproportionately generous offer of sponsorship. “Long lost uncles” don’t do things like that without very special circumstances and those circumstances need to be carefully explained. ECO’s also worry about the relationship between the applicant and the sponsor and whether it is strong enough to lend credibility to the sponsor’s claim. See also Will mention of a previously undisclosed relative, who will now invite me to the UK, help me to obtain a visa?

While it’s true that sometimes long-lost relatives can suddenly appear and offer sponsorship for no apparent reason, it is an applicant pattern viewed with pronounced scepticism on the Sub-Saharan Desk. You would have to explain why a relative is willing to do this for you and yet you were unaware of them last year. That would be an awkward explanation and genuine visitors do not need to make awkward explanations like that.

Or another refusal on Paragraphs (a) + (c) where sponsorship appears to have been contrived:

Picture this: From out of the blue with no explanation, somebody gets an all expenses paid offer to attend an interview in the UK at a company where there is already a mature and abundant labour market locally. This offer is extended to someone who has been working in their current role for less than a year with no particular credentials to make a company do that. Moreover, their personal circumstances are such that they could easily drop everything and relocate.

And of course if the sponsor has previously been involved in a breach, it goes without saying that a refusal is in order.

Finally, attestations by the sponsor along the lines of “…my nephew very much respects UK law and would never overstay…” can damage the sponsor’s credibility. Nobody is telepathic and telepathy is the only way such an attestation can be made. See Applied for Family Visit but refused under V4.2(a) and (c):

It doesn’t cut any ice to assure them that you will return home after your visit, and assurances like that make for a particularly weak application anyway. Why should you return home?

This is stated more formally in My girlfriend was a refused a visa to visit me in the UK. What now?

A sponsor’s responsibility is to demonstrate the capacity to maintain and accommodate the application. Nothing else. Your ‘intentions’ are irrelevant and attempting to assert them indicates that you do not understand what your role is and, by extension, that you do not understand the rules. This is a fair assumption on their part because, if your friend decided to go underground and disappeared inside the UK, there is nothing you could do to prevent it.

Sponsorship Undertakings: if the ECO thinks that a sponsorship undertaking will save the application and prevent a refusal, they will contact the applicant and ask for one. In these cases the sponsor needs to establish a sound financial picture and evidence of accommodation (from ownership or an explicit permission from the landlord). The hurdles for establishing accommodation and financial capacity are rigorously high. And to repeat: having a sponsor does not mitigate the applicant’s need to qualify in their own right. See Sponsor a visa applicant: form SU07 for more information.

A Note on British Army Assessment Refusals

This is slight variant of the refusals already discussed. Briefly, midway through the recruitment process, candidates are required to report to a military installation in the UK for a two-day assessment. The variant is that the British Army will send an invitation letter (but does not participate as an economic sponsor).

Applicants from the less affluent Commonwealth nations, who are disadvantaged in the first instance, especially those in Africa, can get caught in a confusing ‘catch 22‘ predicament. This occurs when their lifestyle and readiness to sever their homeland ties and ‘ship out’ for an assignment to a foreign post belie the very homeland ties that the ECO wants to see in order to qualify for the visa!

We can’t debate the sensibility of the Army’s policy here because this falls within the mandate of the Politics site; for us it must be accepted as part of “WHAT IS”. Hence there is nothing specific to offer these applicants except what is already presented above.

A Note on PLAB Refusals

When a person finishes medical school abroad they sometimes like to “top up” their qualification by taking the Professional and Linguistic Assessments Board test, or “PLAB” for short. Some portions of the PLAB are administered abroad, and some are available only in the UK.

Sitting the PLAB is an activity specifically mentioned in the rules; it is an approved activity within the scope of the Standard Visitor Visa.

The generic profile of a PLAB refusal is where the applicant’s parents have funded their education and the applicant is just starting out in their medical career. Sometimes they are still living with their parents. Accordingly they have a strong premise (a medical degree) but a very weak application because they have not established an independent lifestyle.

If you fit that profile, consider putting off the PLAB until you are more settled in your career and have a credible pattern of being a medical practitioner in your own country.

A Note on Discrimination

By way of introduction, Entry Clearance Officers and staff are from a cross-section of society, so it’s natural that some are gay or transexual, some are Muslim, some are black, and so on. With this sort of diversity, systemic discrimination is recognised and crushed early on.

Having said that, we can turn to this answer: Does the UK visa system discriminate against Muslims? which discusses a Ministerial Statement authorising discrimination for some nationalities.

The Minister for Immigration (Damian Green): I have made an authorisation under paragraph 17(4)(a) of schedule 3 to the Equality Act 2010, to enable the UK Border Agency to give greater scrutiny or priority to particular nationalities in carrying out entry clearance, border control and removals functions.

This authorisation came into force on 10 February 2011. It replaces the Race Relations (Immigration and Asylum) Authorisation 2004, which came into force on 12 February 2004 and has been revoked.

The full text is in Hansard, but ILPA published a great summary at Race Discrimination Authorisation

The answer goes on to explain that the government keeps a list of countries where historical performance has been problematic. Applicants in these countries will have a more difficult time. The list is classified, but it’s common knowledge that countries with large-scale performance problems are in South Asia and Africa.

As for Muslims we can see that Qatar and the UAE nationals can get fast-track visas and these are predominantly Muslim countries.

For the types of refusals we’re taking up in this answer, where the bulk of them are predictable from the outset, claims of discrimination are more of a red herring.

Now what?

There is a piece of boiler plate at the bottom of all refusal notices…

Any future UK visa applications you make will be considered on their individual merits, however you are likely to be refused unless the circumstances of your application change.

This is an advisory suggesting that fundamental changes are needed in order to apply successfully the next time. Caution is in order because once an individual enters a tail-spin of serial refusals, they can take on a life of their own by exposing the applicant’s fixation on getting in to the UK (that’s a bad thing).

This article “How do I find an immigration lawyer/solicitor to help with my UK Visa application?” suggests that a ‘doc check’ can be helpful and goes on to explain what it is…

If your case is straight-forward but you want to make sure your application is bullet-proof, you can arrange for a ‘doc check’. It means a practitioner will take your completed application and all your evidence and give you some light feedback on it. Remember that it’s light-weight and not for ‘complex’ cases.

The article also cites an important disclaimer…

I am aligned with the school of thought that solicitors should be used whenever the applicant’s case is complex. Regardless of the cost, a solicitor can prevent refusals and as we know, refusals are a permanent burden on a person’s history.

If you have read this article and have concluded that the material is not helpful for your case, it may be that using the net is not going to work for you. In such cases, a practitioner should be sought.

The UK’s “go to” site for qualified practitioners is the Immigration Law Practitioners’ Association (ILPA). They offer a search engine that can be used to present the end-user with a list of members who are regulated by the Solicitors Regulation Authority or the Immigration Services Commissioner (OISC). Most of the time practitioners are happy to use email and Skype to sort things out thus making direct personal contact unnecessary.

I am reluctant to suggest practitioners in South Asia and Africa because there are so many con artists operating outside the UK’s regulatory and ethical sphere. However, the UK Law Society operates an international division which may be helpful for very complex situations.

Notes and afterthoughts…

“Funds Parking” is a term originally coined here on this site. You cannot Google it to learn more because we’re the only known site to use the term “Funds Parking” as literary shorthand to describe the visa strategy.

Archive from: https://travel.stackexchange.com/questions/150275/i-didnt-meet-requirements-under-paragraph-v4-2-a-c-e-appendix-v-what-doe

from https://knowledgewiki.org/uk-visa-refusal-on-v-4-2-a-c-and-sometimes-e/