#thread: aiden

[ofcaeriw]

Back home, Rhys could never imagine such a thing, but Caeriw was a far cry away from the grandeur of London. Now, the men and women would be parading themselves about as the best match of the season. It seemed odd to Rhys, given that many seemed opposed to the restrictions marriage came with. “What charm is that?” Rhys wondered aloud, “Miss Winchester, is she your pick then?” Rhys asked, observing the man closely. If she were to be his pick, did a spark of something factor into it, or was it all business? The way others conducted themselves was truly fascinating.

One of the most interesting aspects of the season, at least to Rhys, was that the men were not on equal footing with the women, at least in terms of scrutiny. Now the queen would deem which man was the best amongst them, from the gentry, of course. “And do you believe that you will be picked as her majesty’s choice?” Rumour had it that anyone could be picked, but Rhys doubted a stable hand would be amongst the names on the queen’s shortlist.

Aiden mused inwardly, a quiet satisfaction settling within him at the thought of Pippa Winchester potentially earning the coveted title. While the echoes of a past intimacy with her father lingered as a faint footnote in his personal history, he firmly believed it held no sway over his current preference. Nor did the pleasant prospect of fostering a deeper friendship with Pippa herself unduly influence his judgment. No, his inclination towards Pippa as the diamond stemmed from a more objective assessment of her merits. He recognized her sharp intellect, her keen understanding of social dynamics, and the undeniable spark of wit that danced in her eyes. He had no doubt that she possessed a certain allure, a captivating presence that would undoubtedly draw the attention of eligible bachelors – even if his own affections lay elsewhere.

A diplomatic smile gracing his lips, Aiden voiced his support, albeit with a necessary caveat. "Miss Winchester might indeed be a most suitable choice," he conceded, his tone carrying a note of genuine approval, well aware of Pippa's own aspirations for the coveted recognition. "She possesses a certain… vibrancy that I believe would be well-received." He paused, a subtle reminder of the ultimate authority in such matters. "However," he added, his smile softening slightly, "it is ultimately Her Majesty's discerning eye, not my humble opinion, that will bestow the title."

[xixovart]

i made some of those twitter thread thingies w the sbg guys 🗣🗣

this is my coming out as an sbg fan ily red

[psychescape]

She can't hear us with her head in that bucket. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful bucket. The whole suit is lovely, quite snug in all the right places.

It's only the latest in a series of misplaced 'jokes', and Shepard intends to make it the last. It's been grating his god-damned gears for longer than he usually would let it, but for having been advised restraint in his conduct, he's bitten his tongue beyond a “You're not half as funny as you think,” or a “Ever considered shutting the hell up instead?”. His temper – drastically shorter than what it was before his death – has gotten away from him once or twice, but for all the anger he's bottled up, he's done well for himself.

His third transgression is impending, however — perhaps in the most spectacular manner so far. Between his eyes snapping towards Donnelly and Miranda's voice growing fuzzy over his omni-tool, he recalls another classic line of his.

Officer Lawson's uniform is very official. It always makes me stand at attention.

He's not sure what about this increasingly multi-facetted interpretation of the situation at hand pushes him past the threshold: the blatant disrespect in and of itself, Tali's overt disapproval, Miranda's confusion at his silence barely ringing through as he drops the open line between him and her, or his strange sympathy for Jack downstairs.

It's for the best she's down there, he supposes — she'd have undoubtedly blown a hole into the hull and tossed him out of it, had she heard him. He kind of wishes she would now. Maybe he'll do it instead.

The thought materialises and no sooner does he catch himself seeing red. No more nuance to encourage respect over fear; it's a powerful tool and he's hell-bent on using it.

“That's enough!” With an unceremonious flourish of his hand, he dismisses his omni-tool and pivots towards the engineer in question. Just as the rest of the Normandy falls away in this blackened tunnel vision homing in on the object of his anger, he catches one final glimpse of Tali's eyes squinting no longer in irritation, but concern.

Daniels more notably conveys the sentiment, but she, too, goes ignored — for now. It's in that split-second observation that Shepard decides that she, too, is due some disciplining.

She's a shaking leaf in the wind, but Donnelly's about to face a storm and he knows it, if the wide-eyed stare and the sunken expression on his face are any indication. Shepard’s anger boils over, twisting into rage within the mere three steps it takes Shepard to reach him and pin him face-down to the console. “Did you lose god-damned mind between the Alliance and Cerberus, Donnelly? Or were you always this much of a pathetic little skeeve?”

He can hear gasp, chased down by a datapad dropping on the floor beside him. His gaze remains seated on the fright-blistered frown below — still, unmoving, until a choked “It was just a joke!” finds his ears. More weight presses down on the forearm braced across Donnelly's spine, the already white-knuckled grip on his collar tightening in tandem.

“Try again. Try harder. Answer me,” he demands coolly. "No, sir! Sorry, sir!" Shepard sees the reddening of the other's face — a deep, saturated tone, perhaps even bordering on purple.

Daniels says something, but nothing that actually registers. Tali follows, and even her it takes at least two tries to get him to snap out of the narrowing, black pit he'd thrown himself into. It felt good while it lasted, this venting of pressure.

The aftermath ... not so much. It's not like he got off on any of it, and all wants now is for this moment, this waste of time, to be over already. He withdraws at length, straightening himself and relinquishing his hold on Donnelly. Even upon watching him struggle to catch his breath, Shepard feels not an iota of regret.

“You'd be a damned disgrace to your Alliance uniform if you'd still had it.” And you wouldn't be? Nobody's asking; nobody other than the repressed voice of common decency, scratching the confines of his warped mind. Aiden dismisses the thought.

Just then he hears the door slide open behind him. A cursory glance its way reveals Miranda in the opening — EDI's work, no doubt. There's a sudden and undeniable urge to let up and join her and take the elevator upstairs. He's not done yet, though, so he does none of that, returning to the task at hand instead ( without answering the question written all over her face: What's going on here? ).

But there's more to be done if he's to make a point beyond instilling fear into him, and likely Daniels, at that.

“As for your apology,” he continues, straightening his overalls, “save it for the women you thought fit to disrespect — your coworkers, for Christ's sake; the lot putting their lives on the line to save the sorry lives of the likes of you. I mean it, Donnelly: say it to them, or I'll boot you off next time we dock. Chop-chop.”

With no acknowledgement of the shakiest salute known to Man, Shepard's attention turns to Daniels. It's void of all that unbridled rancour it held mere seconds ago. Now he just looks tired. “You're hardly better, but I guess you get a pass 'cause you're a woman, too.” It's as close to a polite, dim-witted 'shame on you!' as he'll ever come, and equally as close to a 'fuck you both, actually' as he'll ever allow himself towards his crew. All this, while knowingly skirting the line between what's acceptable to say, and what isn't. Quid pro quo, he thinks — unfairly. This, too, he knows, but doesn't care to rectify.

He never claimed to be fair or particularly just.

His gaze veers towards the left, meeting Tali's halfway. She knows him well enough to realise a curt nod will do, which he returns, upon which he abruptly heads for the door — the very one Lawson's still holding open.

He doesn't pause to selfishly linger in her presence like he normally would; too deflated for that. She'll have to find her answers among the engineers of the ship just now.

[cyberneticatoms]

WHERE: The Frost House (Lower District) WHO: Jess West (@chaosandcrimson)

Aiden wrapped his arms around Jess's waist and pulled her close to his chest, leaning down to brush his lips against her neck. "Not that I don't mind waking up with you here," they mumbled against her skin, "But you know we can find somewhere to meet more in the middle, don't mind burning some cash to get us a hotel or something." The inside of the house was nice, the soundproofing they'd done, working wonders to keep from being aware of which district they were in.

[nomadjones]

closed for: @aiden-stevens

where: sharky’s halloween party

Numerous trips to the bar meant trips to the bathroom were unavoidable. Dallas made his way through the crowd on a return from one of the very same, feeling both warmed by the whiskey he had been drinking most of the night and somewhat overheated from having a leather jacket on in a place that rammed.

He had thought he gamed the bar-space when he made his way through a less densely populated part closest to the wall, where he had no chance of knocking into someone.

He hadn't anticipated that someone would have knocked into him.

There's no doubt in his mind that he wouldn't have even noticed it through his buzz if it wasn't for sudden dampness at his stomach where his white tank top was now drenched in what was dark enough to be Coke or Pepsi and what caught his nostrils with the unmistakable whiff of Jack Daniels.

He lets out and irritated breath as he pinches the fabric and holds it away from his skin, waiting a couple of seconds for an apology that didn't come.

"You got any plans this side of the century to say sorry?"

[grcveyacd]

“ i told you that it’s your day, and we can do whatever you want. “ he offers a small smile, fingers absentmindedly brushing against the side of her arm. “ we can go see a movie, get dinner, go to a party — or we can stay in. “ he shrugs, not really caring what they did at the end of the day. he just wanted to make sure that she was able to have a good time without having to worry about anything for once. “ it’s your call. “ // @slumpcd

[minne-cerbinna]

I'm playing TW1 again and I have thoughts about this tiny little sequence in the Chapter 2 quest "Memories of a Blade", which amounts to the only mention of Coën in the game.

When undertaking this quest, Geralt is investigating the origin of the silver sword he was given to slay a cockatrice; he mistakenly believes that it might be Berengar's sword since he knows the other witcher to have been in the area. A conversation with Thaler, from whom the sword was confiscated by the guard, will lead him eventually to speak to the Gardener outside St. Lebioda's hospital in Vizima. This man used to be a mercenary under Pretty Kitty, but has since retired and works as a gardener, and had lost the silver sword at dice poker. When interacted with, he will begin any conversation with "Look how they grow!", referring to the plants in his garden. The player can then initiate the quest dialogue with option one, "I'm more interested in silver swords".

GERALT: I'm more interested in silver swords.

GARDENER: I knew one of you would come by eventually.

GERALT: You lost it playing dice?

GARDENER: I was sure I'd win. Beware, the sharp one plays well.

GERALT: Where did you get this sword?

GARDENER: Five years ago, there was a battle near Brenna. When the dust had settled, our men had beaten the Nilfgaardians. We ceased to call ourselves an imperial province that day.

GERALT: You captured the sword during the battle?

GARDENER: Yes, it was witcher Cöen's [sic]. A strapping fellow and a rare breed. Not very talkative, mind you.

GERALT: Like most of us.

GARDENER: I gave my word the sword would find another witcher. As he lay dying, he mumbled about teeth and destiny. Then he laughed -- at his own death.

GERALT: Yet you lost it gambling?

GARDENER: I kept it hidden for five years. I lost hope I'd ever run into another witcher. Miss Shani knew Cöen [sic]. She works at the hospital.

GERALT: Thanks.

GARDENER: Good luck on the path!

The quest will lead you to speak with Shani, then Zoltan, but neither will provide further information on Coën, aside from Shani mentioning that he died on her operating table -- Shani's dialogue is to provide her backstory as a medic at Brenna and to mention Rusty, and Zoltan simply assesses the quality of the blade to ensure that it is a witcher blade of good workmanship. It has no further significance to Geralt, who, without his memory, has no idea who Coën is and has more pressing matters to deal with than to look into the past of a man who died five years ago (according to the somewhat off-kilter game timeline, anyway). But it's the only mention of Coën in the games, and I find that it's a very interesting way to manifest his presence.

I think it is reasonable to tie Coën quite closely to his sword on a symbolic level, if one considers his appearance in the novels where he not only trains with Ciri, but his prowess with a sword is unrivaled even by the other witchers to the point where she believes that he may be the best swordsman in the world. Additionally, the fact that he fought at Brenna at all means that he offered his sword in the service of the Northern Kingdoms, and when he dies, he is identified by his peers as a "master swordsman" rather than as a witcher, despite the fact that they know of his nature. As such, Coën's sword is a very important possession for him to leave behind.

And from there, there is a connection to Lambert, left unsaid. To go beyond the simple fact that Coën was Lambert's friend, someone dearly loved who was close enough with Lambert and his family to get on with the other wolves and stay a winter at Kaer Morhen, the importance lies with the sword. As with any witcher, Coën wouldn't have much in the way of worldly possessions to bequeath onto someone else in the event of his prophecied death. But he does have his swords, which are established as symbolically important to him. A steel sword could be taken up by any warrior capable enough to use it, but a silver sword belongs in the hands of a witcher, and that is what Coën asked for on his deathbed, for his silver sword to be given to another witcher. While it's very possible that this is meant in a general way, that he just wanted any other witcher to take it up, to avoid the sword being wasted, broken, or dismantled for its composite parts, it also strikes me as possible that he could have intended it for a specific witcher.

Lambert is one of the instructors for Ciri when she's first learning the swordplay and acrobatics associated with being a witcher. Lambert is the one in the first game to provide the instructional descriptions of the Fighting Styles for Geralt to regain his swordplay competencies after losing his memories. And there is another bit of dialogue in TW3 that really emphasises both Lambert's connection to Vesemir, the swordmaster of Kaer Morhen, and the idea of swords as inheritance, as a manifestation of closeness:

LAMBERT: Knew the old man couldn't live forever. Huh, even told Eskel that when it came time, I'd get his sword. Fits my hand perfectly, you know.

Which is a heartbreaking notion in and of itself upon which I could expostulate, the symbolism there in the fraught relationship between Lambert and his father figure reduced to something as simple as a hilt that fits two hands perfectly. But if this is the inheritance that Lambert wants, it makes it all the more pertinent that Coën desperately wanted his silver sword to make it into the hands of another witcher. Lambert, the son of a swordmaster, wants to take on a sword as a memento of someone he has lost, and Coën, the master swordsman, left his sword behind. Even if Lambert were not the specific intended target of the sword, he would have possibly or even likely known Coën well enough to fulfill his wishes, whatever they might be.

And yet Coën's sword never makes it home or into the hands of someone who would value it, like Lambert would, this last memory of his dear friend. Geralt makes use of the sword during his time in Vizima, and then it is lost, replaced by the gifted Aerondight. And so Coën is lost with it, never mentioned again.

[chaosandcrimson]

LOCATION: Frost Residence FOR: Aiden Frost ( @cyberneticatoms )

"Hi," Jess greeted when Aiden answered the door, a slightly sheepish smile on her face. After storming out of her sister's office, she had made the journey all the way to the lower district while stewing in her own thoughts and feelings, only realising she hadn't called ahead when she was already at his doorstep. "Sorry I showed up unannounced. I've had a long day and I have some business I need to attend to here in the lower district first thing tomorrow morning. Is it okay if I stay over tonight?"

[ladiesandwitches]

Penny starter for @halliwellauto who liked the thing

Being dead didn't necessarily mean you missed out on life, and since her passing Penny hadn't gotten more than used to being summoned back to the living world by her family for one reason or another. And even if she wasn't, sometimes she decided she had best just turn up anyway.

But usually she found herself in the manor, a familiar sight, and much more aesthetically pleasing than the one she had now. While not sure whether she'd been actively conjured or the Powers That Be had just decided she needed to be here, she was certain however that she didn't like the look of the place.

"Well, I don't expect a lot of ceremony when I come here, but I wouldn't mind something a little nicer than..." She looked around with a frown. "Is this an auto shop?"

[impcrsonatcr]

“ — so should i just keep my mouth shut? is that what you’re saying? “  // @bittcrsuite

[ulyflynn]

closed for: @edietello

where: aiden's house, nora and aiden's birthday party

"Move." Uly practically barked at two partygoers who were trying to take a selfie in the hallway he was making his way down, leaving both Nora and the bathroom they had occupied in his rearview as he sought out another drink.

The pair parted for him easily and he pushed passed with a deliberate shove, inhaling through his nose sharply to counteract the irksome tickle in his nostrils that usually indicated to him that he should lay off the lines for the rest of the night.

He wastes no time to take the bottle of Belvedere he sees left unoccupied by the neck and pour himself a measure into a red solo cup that appeared clean enough, glancing to his side as he catches sight of blonde in his peripheral with a face that made him double take.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

[xixovart]

the return of the twitteroonies

part one!! part two??

[psychescape]

Left within the Commander's quarters exists a small gift bag and box; finely wrapped with a bow and a card attached to the bag, the evidence is in the handwriting. "Happy birthday, Commander - xoxo Miranda" , and within the box are half a dozen mini-cupcakes of different flavours; the bag, however, contains a rather expensive, military-grade watch, a small bottle of her own favoured daily perfume to make the distance a little easier, and another paper note, folded up. "I've treated myself to treat you next time you're on shore leave... in your favourite colour ;)"

Someone snuck in here while he was asleep — someone who worked the night cycle ... He could get worked up over that, and he would on any other day, but after what nowadays constitutes a good night's sleep, he shouldn't. More than that, the occasion is a joyous one, technically speaking.

It's joyous in that he knows who sent this his way before he's even touched it, and that has his heart swell despite how stony it's become. That tough exterior shell cracks so profusely, he can even feel himself smiling.

Less exciting is gaining another year on his count, but that suddenly feels irrelevant. He'd gone to bed dreading the awkward congratulations, and while he still isn't looking forward to those, the focal point of the moment is the package waiting on his desk. He's in the here and now, and intends to stay there for as long as he can possibly ( responsibly ) stretch this moment.

The handwritten card earns itself a spot on his desk, next to the photo of her he keeps — not tucked away in some drawer, like he might've had this been a more public spot. Can't be seen as sentimental. He isn't ... usually.

He's not particularly careful about opening the box and revealing its remaining contents. The watch is promptly slapped around his wrist after a long moment of admiring its buttons and the brightness of its screen, and the perfume – after spraying the lightest dusting of it around the corner of his desk dedicated to her. Might as well go all out now.

If not for the remaining note, beckoning him closer with the merest glimpse of more handwriting, he might've contemplated the slight discomfort of the knowledge that she's nowhere near as close as that fragrance might imply.

Thank god for that note — a promise laid on thickly. Without delay, his sentimentality turns to amusement, and then to longing of several kinds.

Above all, he misses her, perhaps today especially.

Not one to wallow, though, he shelves the thought and snaps a quick picture of the watch on his wrist with his omni-tool, zipping it to Miranda along with a short message:

▶ Got your package ... damned fine taste, Ms Lawson. Any chance I could ask for one more thing (a preview of what you treated yourself with)?

A few seconds of typing, backspacing, and typing again, another follows:

▶ Miss you. If there's another birthday to be had, I hope we'll get to spend it together ❤️

[cyberneticatoms]

WHERE: State Fair WHO: Jess West (@chaosandcrimson)

Going on a busy day had seemed like the best option for them, being able to get lost in the crowd. Aiden was idly sipping on a soda, pair of sunglasses on their face to deal with the sun and holding Jess's hand with his free one. "You see anything you wanted to try from the map or want to just go into the food court to see what we can find," they asked. Bringing her hand up they brushed their lips against her knuckles before letting their hands swing between them again.

[nomadjones]

closed for: @aiden-stevens

where: under the sea prom

After promising Wren he would be back shortly, Dallas downs the rest of the drink in his hand and puts the now empty plastic cup aside so it could be cleared away, his focus honed in solely on a departing figure.

He's not sure where the man's going as he follows him out into the less busy high school hallway that he's mostly unfamiliar with, but he makes himself know before he can shrink off into the distance.

"Hey, you," He hopes he doesn't sound aggressive in his call, an easy think to accidentally be given their last run in, "Aiden?"

[grcveyacd]

“ before you freak out, it’s not what it looks like. “ yes, there was a bruise forming around his right eye, and he did have a cut on the bridge of his nose, but it wasn’t from who she assumed it was from. sure, he had every intention of kicking her ex’s ass from what he did to her but, this wasn’t from her ex. this was from someone much worse, and someone that he had to deal with his entire life. someone who he thought he had escaped from but, of course, after a night of drinking with his friends in his old stomping grounds, he was cornered again. just as he had been when he was younger. only this time, he had the nerve to fight back. “ typically i would just lie and say i fell but, you know me better than that. “ // @slumpcd