#at least when they meaningfully appear in canon

[acrobattack]

another thing i was thinking about while zoning out at work last night is i’m a little surprised there’s no like. Name for characters who are based off the girls’ particular character model and powers. They’re so distinct from every other design in the show and they tend to gain the most popularity but there’s no real catch-all term for them, canon or otherwise

[arcane-ish]

Parallels Mel & Caitlyn

I feel like I haven't properly given thought to the parallels between Mel and Caitlyn (or maybe I have in the past? but I doubt I went into that much depth).

Structurally within their "triangles" they are "the girl", the love interest who is juxtaposed against "the siblings" (though it's worth giving credit to the fact that Mel and Viktor enter Jayce's life basically at the same time, even if things get romantic with Mel only later, while Caitlyn enters Vi's life only after there's already a boatload of history between Jinx and Vi AND that unlike Jinx, Viktor imo never seems hostile and prejudiced against Mel. I would say he mostly seems to ignore her/not say much about her and at the most they have some concrete disagreements on how to handle certain things).

But I think more meaningfully, while Vi and Jinx are two female characters who a deeply defined by their complex loving relationship to their fathers, Mel and Caitlyn are two female characters who are heavily influenced by their more conflicted relationships with their mothers.

Both Caitlyn and Mel start at a place that showcases their analytical strength (Mel in her political skills as she selects the gift for the council, Caitlyn as she analyzes the crime scene), both have their moments of outburst where they want to follow a too radical approach based on negative assumptions about Zaun (Mel with the weapons, Caitlyn at first clashes with Vi a bit) and both end up changing their tune and becoming strong voices in favor of peace. And then of course both in their own way get punished in the explosion at the end of season 1.

In that way, that puts them in a very similar situation at the start of season 2, people who initially championed peace, but were directly negatively affected by violence from Zaun. Will they come to rethink their reconciliatory position? Will they go on the warpath instead?

Also, both are heavily defined by them seeing potential in a person that some people might consider beneath them (Vi and Jayce) and imo arguably trying to lift them and bring them closer, introduce them to their line of work, especially since I fully expect to some extent follow game canon here at least for a bit. Mel made Jayce her partner at the council, just like Caitlyn will aim to make Vi her partner in work as well.

When it comes to their mothers/familial relationship, Mel without a doubt had the more traumatic childhood. Caitlyn benefits from a nurturing father, if Mel had a kind father, we at this point don't know it. Both Mel and Caitlyn define themselves by choosing a very different path (Caitlyn's boots on the ground enforcering versus her mother's politicking, Mel's politicking versus her mother's violence) from their mothers. One difference here is that Caitlyn seems to have fully chosen her path, while Mel was pushed away her mother. Mel is distant from her mother, but her mother had a direct hand in just how distant (as in living actively far away), even if the story suggests that the seeds of Mel being different were already there in the beginning. Still, Mel's mother saw the seeds and actively pushed Mel away into her different path, while Caitlyn seeks her path against her mother's wishes and said mother tries to meddle with and try to control that path by trying to get Caitlyn assigned to less dangerous tasks (while it appears that Ambessa was hands off prior to showing up in Piltover).

I would argue that we see Cassandra being genuinely sympathetic towards Caitlyn and being swayed by her. While with Ambessa so far we have only her word that she did care about Mel in her own way (though I guess with the attack on the council Ambessa will get a chance to show next season whether she really cares about her daughter)

[driftward]

Title: Pain and Scouting in La Noscea Characters: Zoissette Vauban, Klynt Gohtawyn Rating: Teen Summary: If Zoissette will not take care of herself, she has no shortage of people in her life who will at least try to make her feel bad about that. Notes: Not sure if I will consider this canon or not. Testing some feelings I have about gunblades and the fairy familiar, and trying to find a voice for the latter.

Zoissette and Klynt stayed low and out of sight behind a rock. Neither knew for sure how many hundreds of yalms the cave system stretched under La Noscea, but they could be reasonably certain no patrols would be coming by where they were. Zoissette was sitting down, leaning her back against the rock, legs bunched up close to her as she drew diagrams in her codex. Klynt, for her part, stayed crouched, sneaking a peek out every once in a while to check the area.

Zoissette shifted her weight, and winced as she did so, regretting the motion. A moment later she doubly regretted it, for she happened to do so just as Klynt was stealing one of the many glances she had been aiming in her direction since they had entered the caves. Zoissette tried to adjust her grimace into a grin as she turned her face to Klynt, but Klynt just shook her head and stuck her head out for another glance around.

"How long is she gonna take," grumbled Klynt as quiet as Zoissette knew she knew how.

"Patience," chided Zoissette, as she reached up to tap the side of her glasses. A little number, rapidly dropping, appeared in her field of view. "...she is coming back to us now."

A moment later her fairy familiar, Lavender, zipped in, moving from high along the cavern ceiling where the pirates that were in the caverns were unlikely to look up to see, weaving between stalactites before dropping down from right above Zoissette and Klynt. Klynt barely spared her a glance, while Zoissette held her codex flat and open in front of her. The fairy landed on the pages, and placed her palms against them as she did so. Immediately runes began to appear above the page, taking the shape of the caverns, and showing the positions of the various pirates and others that Lavender had seen on her travels.

Zoissette frowned, carefully scanning the simulacrum as it formed. She gestured to Klynt, who shifted to crouch nearby and take a look.

"Looks like we got two paths," said Klynt.

"Concur," said Zoissette. She traced her finger along one, and it glowed a faint orange as her finger passed through the image. "This route is shorter, by a fair amount. We should be able to traverse it faster."

Klynt looked meaningfully at Zoissette for a long moment. "More patrols, though. Yer still getting used to that gunblade. And only just barely got cleared for fightin' again. We should take the longer path. Almost nobody that way, and it'll be easier for you to take better care of yourself."

"I apologise," said Zoissette. "I seem to have forgot. What manner of tart was it you wanted brought back for you from the Bismarck?"

Zoissette looked cooly at Klynt, and tried not to wince when another pain shot up her side. Klynt, for her part, frowned.

"I can get my -own- stuff when we stop by the Bismarck. Iffen we can even spare a moment after we get done here, the way yer pushin' yerself. And why the bloody hell would I get a - oh."

Klynt huffed while Zoissette put on her best innocent face.

"My mistake, Klynt. For a moment there, I thought I was speaking with Archon Y'shtola. You sounded just like her."

"Fine. See if I care," groused Klynt, sticking her head up again to look for patrols. Zoissette nodded, and looked to Lavender.

"Alright. You will stay with Klynt as we make our way through here. I can use the conjury cartridges and the two mana shield cartridges to keep myself well and hale while you tend to any injuries Klynt sustains. We should be able to surprise the first patrol here, and -"

As she went along, she could feel the slight undercurrent of emotions from the connection she shared with Lavender. She felt the familiar's concern, as well as annoyance and more than a bit of recalcitrance. She looked up and frowned at her, just as the fairy crossed her arms and frowned right back.

"What? I have not even gone through the entirety of my planned strategy."

Lavender flitted down to the book, and looked back at Zoissette sternly as she pointed at the other, longer path.

"That will take longer," said Zoissette. "My plan has us moving faster, getting to the tidespear faster, and most importantly, getting us out faster."

The fairy crossed her arms once more, and stuck her chin up in the air at Zoissette. Rather like Archon Y'shtola, really, but she had made that comparison once already.

She did not glance up as she noticed Klynt move off, figuring that her friend had simply spotted something of interest and would be back shortly. On the image that still hovered above the codex pages, the fairy swiped her hand through the orange path that Zoissette had highlighted, dispelling the color, before walking along the longer path, turning it orange instead.

Zoissette waved her hand through the image, dispelling the highlight on the longer path, and once more highlighting the shorter path.

"We must be quick about our work in here. We simply must consider that they have patrols outside as well who are like to return while we waste time in here."

The fairy frowned and shook her head.

"... okay, it is unlikely, but still not outside the realm of possibility. I cannot fathom why you are so insistent on the longer path."

The fairy tilted her head, and then pointed meaningfully at her arm, then to the left side of her navel, then to her opposite leg, then to her hand, then to her - all locations where Zoissette had, not so long ago, had to be stitched back together. Bones set, muscles reknitted, and other attentions she was still feeling the effects of.

Zoissette wanted to cross her arms right back, but she had to hold the codex open, so she settled for mimicking Archon Y'shtola and jutting her chin out at the fairy.

"Oh, so I see I have also brought Archon Urianger with us," she said. "Less admonishments and pointed words, more sighs and long looks and crossed arms and attempts at meaningful looks and gestures from across the room. I am fine."

Putting off Klynt was one thing, Zoissette knew. Klynt would let her, for one. Trying to do so with Lavender was quite another, and the fairy put her hands on her hips and shook her head vigorously at her.

"Fine then," said Zoissette, looking at the paths again. "Compromise. We go this way," she said, marking a path that was a light grey. That meant Lavender had seen down it, but had not actually traveled it. "How many did you see when you looked down this path?"

The fairy held up three fingers. Zoissette nodded.

"Klynt and I can handle that."

The fairy clenched her fists at her side and looked annoyed.

"What? It is a little longer than the path I would like, but three instead of a dozen seems like an improvement to me, do you not agree?"

"Actually, there's four down thataway."

"Ah. Thank you, Klynt, for scouting that out during my lovey discussion with Lavender. Let me just update the map, and -"

Zoissette paused. Something was wrong. That voice sounded very off. She slowly turned her head upward to see a Roegadyn woman standing over the rock, looking down at her and Lavender with an distantly interested expression on her face.

"...You are not Klynt," said Zoissette.

"I am not Klynt," the woman agreed.

Zoissette's hand went slowly for her gunblade. "I do not imagine I could convince you to surrender?" she said, grinning nervously. Lavender took to the air, beginning to pull aether to herself.

The woman glanced up, and then suddenly ducked down behind the rock.

"Might could. Maybe call off Klynny though before she turns me into a Miq'abob, aye?"

Zoissette looked around, and saw Klynt had tucked herself further back into the caves. But not so far back that she did not have space to be able to throw her spear, which she was now holding in her hand, held back and ready to absolutely murder someone with.

"Lavender, go see if you can get Klynt to stand down before she stabs our new friend," said Zoissette. Lavender nodded and flitted off to Klynt.

Zoissette glanced around the edge of the rock she had been hiding behind, holding her side as a pain shot up while she did so. She resolved to continue to ignore that.

"Friend of hers?" asked Zoissette.

"Aye. We served together under a real cuss," said the Roegadyn woman. To her credit, she kept her weapons out of her hands, but seemed content to keep the rock between her and Klynt. "How's she these days?" the Roegadyn asked, conversationally.

"Oh, well. Fussing at me in place of - well. Never mind that. She is well, anyroad," said Zoissette.

"Mmm," the other woman said.

Klynt ambled over, spear still in her hand, ready to strike.

"Best come out slow," said Klynt. The other woman did so, moving slowly, keeping her hands out where Klynt could see them.

"...Rhysgeim?" said Klynt.

"Aw, thank the navigator, I was hopin' ye'd remember me," said the other woman. Rhysgeim. Zoissette made a mental note. And then she wrote down an actual note.

"The bloody hell are you doing down here with these third-rate pirates!" Said Klynt, grinning. "I thought ye'd do better than this. Hells, you had the good sense to get out 'fore I did. Part of why I eventually got the stones to leave."

"Aw, well, you know how it is. Hard to find your fortune when you've a reputation as a turncoat and a coward. But look at you, palling around with the Warrior of Light!"

Zoissette relaxed as the two conversed, sighing, and resting her back against the rock they were supposed to be using for cover once more. She looked over at Lavender flitted down, and landed on her knee, sitting primly.

The two glared at one another, but Zoissette winced as another chorus of pain shot up her side, and she grumbled.

"We are going to talk later," said Zoissette. She sighed. "...but maybe you are right. Klynt, ask your friend about what we were talking about with which path to choose, maybe we can get out of this without too much fighting or trouble."

"Sure," said Klynt, barely interrupting her conversation to do so.

Zoissette just closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Her friends and even her familiar sure were a pain sometimes. But, perhaps, that was for the best.

[loki-zen]

Hot Take:

1. post-canon Homestuck is quite good actually,

2. certainly better than the bad/off the rails latter parts of canon Homestuck,

3. and, actually, on several craft-of-writing levels it’s better than canon Homestuck full stop; AH has grown as a writer and an artist in the intervening years and as such the day-to-day panels of HS^2 look better, its story is better paced, jumping between story threads is done more artfully, the cast is pared down to a more manageable size, and there are several characters that it always felt like he didn’t really know what he was doing with them who have been figured out and used to far greater effect, as well as popular original Homestuck characters whose arcs are meaningfully improved by the continuation.

Spoilers under cut (mild I guess)

The character stuff really benefits from the greater freedom post-canon provides in terms of narrative role.

In canon, there was basically only one role any of the human or humanlike characters could have - Hero of [Blah], player of the Game, aspiring saviour of the universe. Boring. Especially in the Alpha kids, it fell flat in everyone but Roxy.

Jane and Dirk are infinitely more interesting as sometimes-at-least-somewhat-sympathetic antagonists. Jake English is infinitely more tolerable when his role is not ‘Hero of Hope’ but ‘that shallow somewhat irritating guy you knew as a kid who is now a shallow somewhat irritating celebrity.’ Roxy’s quantum transness is Extremely Relatable and I think pretty damn well-written in the end (I’m thinking of eg the conversation Candy Roxy (she/her) has with John about the situation in ^2).

Speaking of which, the timeline shit is better utilised here and easier to understand. And the way fourth-wall breaking, format screw shenanigans interfaces with the plot is a lot more well done (or at least more well thought out? More coherent.), and imo genuinely sinister and chilling at times.

All that said, it does lack some Inestimable Something that prevents me from claiming that it’s outright better. Maybe it’s just that by definition it can’t be groundbreaking the way the original was. And it’s far from perfect - Meat is much longer than it needs to be in classic AH style while Candy is very half-assedly (un)finished, and ^2 itself will probably never get finished, or at least I’m not getting my hopes up.

But it’s got its charms, for sure, and might’ve been unfairly skipped out on by people who were put off by how the original went off the rails. It’s definitely a valiant attempt to get back on some rails.

YMMV if your favourite troll isn’t in it, of course. (Off the top of my head, Eridan, Nepeta, Equius and both Piexes do not reappear at all; Sollux is barely in it, Aradia has a somewhat minor role, and Tavros… well that one’s kind of interesting, but the character we know does not reappear.)

[SPOILER re the above: a character with the same speech/typing quirk, approximate narrative positioning and first name does appear, but he is a human who is related in no way to the Tavros we remember.]

(also I think Jade fans could reasonably say she is done dirty by post-canon to the point that they may well prefer her arc untainted by knowledge of her post-canon self. Depends what side of her you’re into. Same goes for Jade and Dirk fans who prefer to think of them as heroic characters I guess?)

(Additionally, in ‘things I just think are neat’, there is an Egbert/Strilonde baby in the mix, and we discover that the synthesis of Egbert nerdery, Strider extroverted-insecurity and Lalonde virtuosic dramaticness is, naturally, a Theatre Kid.)

[drabsyo]

Drabs, I know that you usually draw Fleur with slightly darker blonde hair than Narcissa. Was it a choice so that it’s easier to distinguish them from each other or was your Fleur maybe slightly influenced by the actress from the movie who had darker hair?

In the books Fleur didn’t seem to have much description other than having long silvery hair (waist length?) and having this glow around her. So like with Narcissa, what works have influenced your design of Fleur?

It’s fascinating sometimes to read the artist’s perspective and your previous reply to the anon about Narcissa has been very interesting.

Thank you!!! 🥺

I was actually pretty embarrassed over how enthusiastic I got over the whole hair thing, but I'm glad it made some sense at least 😂 And now that I've been given even more reason to talk about it... (Let's face it, I shouldn't even be allowed on this website to begin with, ya'll have been way too nice to me.)

Only click on keep reading if you want to read Some Nonsense.

I did consider Fleur's actress when I thought about her hair color. Though I pictured it to be something of a mix between movie Fleur and Elsa’s (from Frozen) hair. But the way I drew Fleur's hair, the way it falls across her shoulders, that was more of... well, I imagined Fleur to have effortlessly perfect hair, like she doesn't seem to need to style it so much because it's already whimsical as it is, what with her being part-Veela. There were a lot of fanfictions that helped me to sort of see a better image of Fleur in my head so really, I owe it to all the talented writers out there!

It's also the same with Narcissa's case. Though I decided to give her paler hair, compared to Fleur's, because I wanted to emphasize that air of vulnerability Narcissa has—this image she conjures, like she's this fragile thing made of glass, which typically in fanfiction is what Narcissa uses so that Voldemort would overlook her a lot, hence why she wasn't given any "missions" or "tasks" while Voldemort was in Malfoy Manor. Slytherin preservation. This "fragile" image was something Narcissa capitalized on and maintained perfectly, but in post-war Cissamione fanfictions, she no longer has to put on that façade—she starts living for herself, but the quiet sadness about her never really goes away.

I really did struggle at first, I had to find a way where I could draw them without confusing people and myself.

So, again, I sifted through a lot of canon and non canon material about these two characters which funnily enough made me see some kind of parallel going on between them. I know. Fleur Delacour and Narcissa Black. Parallels?! It's nuts. But again, this is only within Fleurmione and Cissamione fanfiction, and it really helped me to draw them better. (At least in a way that made them distinguishable from one other at first glance, I’d like to think.)

These 'hair scenes' are mostly the bits where Hermione "first" sees Fleur. Hermione is entranced, a little curious, sometimes she feels indifferent, but the general theme is Hermione immediately finds Fleur beautiful—which probably explains why Hermione in fanfiction sometimes thinks Narcissa could be part-Veela like Fleur. And as you can imagine, that's where my struggle began.

You'll see what I mean in a minute. And just like last time, remember that this part comes with spoilers.

🔹 In Fighting is our form of Flirting by InsomniacAndBi in Chapter 2 Hermione sees Fleur for the first time. This is the first Fleurmione fanfiction I've ever read, and also the first time I've encountered Fleur's character. Tall, bright blonde hair, won the genetic lottery, aristocratic features, face held in a scowl, floats into the room with effortless poise, immediately starts demanding things out of people... Sounds vaguely familiar, doesn't it. Like some other blonde we know.

"Non!" A voice from the doorway said. "This is not what was agreed."

For a moment, Hermione thought about ignoring it but turned to glance over there if only to quell her curiosity. A girl stepped into the room and Hermione's phone call was forgotten in a moment. She knew that it wasn't nice to stare but Hermione couldn't help but do it because, in all honesty, this was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. She was definitely taller than Hermione was, with bright blonde hair and...clearly she had won the genetic lottery.

Her skin practically glowed and it looked so smooth and soft. It made Hermione wonder if she used those fancy beautification charms or had a very lengthy skincare routine. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what being rich did to people's faces. There was no doubt in Hermione's mind that this girl was rich - like extremely rich, like even rich people thought she was rich. That kind of rich. That was the type of rich that this girl was.

Also, only super rich people curled up their lip like this girl was doing.

She breezed into the room like she was floating and Hermione hastily ended her phone call and promised to call back later.

"This is not what was agreed," The girl said again and Hermione felt incredibly small sitting in front of her. Not to mention, the girl's clothes screamed 'I'm rich and I know it' and Hermione's screamed 'I'm so out of place that I might as well be a bull in a China shop'.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione managed to get out when it became apparent that the girl was waiting for her response.

"You are English." The girl looked shock for a moment at Hermione's accent before shaking her head angrily. "This is not what was agreed."

🔹 In Oath of Silver by i_shall_wear_midnight immediately in the first chapter, when Witcher Hermione first meets Fleur, it's something Hermione quickly notices. Vivid sapphire eyes. Silvery blonde hair that shimmered in the torchlight. And once again, right off the bat, Fleur is pushy. She wants things done her way. It’s just so cute how she doesn’t even let the fact that Hermione is a Witcher, an extremely dangerous outcast in society, get in the way of that.

(I'm sorry for this but I just have to gush about Oath of Silver. Hermione as a witcher is just so fitting for her character; she possesses that natural eye for detail that remarkable witchers have, witchers like Geralt and Vesimir (a skill that gets even more honed through the Witcher Trials). Hermione even has Geralt's dry sense of humor, a bit rough around the edges, brilliant, snippy without really meaning to (because she asks a lot of questions and would rather get to the point), but has a good heart.)

The witcher figured that would be the end of her human interactions for the evening, but only a few minutes later, the stunning newcomer from before appeared before her. Upon closer inspection, Hermione couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be conspicuous in any group of people she happened to find herself immersed in. The woman was looking back at her with vivid sapphire eyes, and silvery blonde hair that shimmered even in torchlight. Her attire was travel-ready, but elegant.

“Bonsoir. You are a witcher, oui? Or perhaps a ‘witcheress’ is more accurate? I am not familiar with all the terms…” She watched the beautiful stranger patiently while she fumbled through Hermione’s professional title. As if the distinctive, amber colored cat-eyes hadn’t given her away, the brunette mused wryly. Eventually, the blonde gave up and sat herself down at Hermione’s table, her medallion twitching faintly as the stranger got settled. Hermione filed that away for later. Her new dinner buddy seemed to be oblivious to the curious and concerned looks now being thrown her way at boldly taking a seat at a mutant’s table.

“I came from Ellander,” she began in a non sequitur. “The temple, and spoke to the priestess Nenneke, who told me about you.” Hermione continued eating her second serving of stew and waited for her to get to the point. “I would like to hire you as an escort as I travel back to Toussaint.” The witcher finally put her spoon down.

“Sounds like you ought to be asking some mercenaries to be your bodyguards,” she responded, eyeing the bow the woman was carrying on her pack meaningfully.

“A pair seems doable, and I’d prefer you.”

“I’m not a bodyguard.”

“Yes, technically, I am aware,” she replied, beginning to show signs of impatience.

“Then why are you soliciting a monster-slayer?”

🔹 Witnessed here in Time and Blood by whistle.the.silver is probably the most interesting one because it uses the concept of Veela hair as a wand core brilliantly. Again, this comes with huge 🛑spoilers🛑. Read the italicized words at your own risk. I can't add the entire clip here, as the topic of Fleur's hair is littered throughout several other chapters. But this story shows us a Fleur who is willing to do anything in order to protect Hermione during the course of the war.

My memory is a bit foggy, I haven't read this story in months, but here's what I remember:

This takes place during the time of Shell Cottage, where Fleur is married to Bill and takes care of Hermione. Fleur didn't expect to fall in love with the young brunette and, as the Golden Trio's time in Shell Cottage comes to an end, she worries over Hermione's safety. Fleur, using magic only known to the Veela tribes, does her best to offer Hermione protection in any way that she can--even going as far as to study what Lily Potter did so Harry could live. At one point, Fleur cuts her own hair with a length now roughly above her shoulders to give Hermione a new wand. But this isn't the only bridge Fleur is willing to cross to make sure Hermione survives the incoming battle. Fleur's grandmother, Ron, and even Bill himself, is a little sceptic over the propriety of Fleur's actions, but Fleur is determined to do whatever it takes to make sure Hermione makes it out of the war safe and alive.

So that was a lot to wade through, I know.

But if you've skipped all those parts for the sake of missing spoilers then let me go ahead and explain why the parallel between Fleur and Narcissa are there. Sure, it's plain to see that they have similar physical characteristics, but they're also similar in other ways.

In Witnessed here in Time and Blood, Fleur is willing to do whatever it takes to protect Hermione during the war: sacrifice the secrets of the Veela, make Hermione a wand, make her marriage and friendship with Bill suffer, be scrutinized by her Veela tribe, etc. And didn't Narcissa do the exact same thing during the war to make sure Draco made it out alive? They both chose to 'betray' everyone else for the sake of this one person. Not to mention, in Extinction by rubikanon Narcissa even makes Hermione a wand. (I’m telling you, there are so many parallels between these two ships and I can probably list more but I'd rather not make this post longer.)

Here, I’m just going to go ahead and say it—it’s almost like Fleur and Narcissa in fanfiction have the same love language.

A glaringly obvious difference between them is their upbringing, and we could argue that this why Fleur tends to be more open with her emotions while Narcissa tends to be more carefully guarded with hers. And I don't know if writers realize these parallels but as someone who's a huge fan of both characters and as someone who makes the occasional fanart of them, it's a pretty difficult detail to ignore. This crazy conspiracy all started because I had to find a way to make both characters look distinct from one another... It's just so interesting that writers from two different ships unknowingly make these parallels with two completely separate characters who are often at the opposite ends of the seesaw.

But again, let's take a look at Extinction by rubikanon. (I know. Extinction?! AGAIN?! Always.)

Spoiler warning!

🔹 Extinction by rubikanon has a marvelous take on this, as it turns out Fleur and Narcissa are actually good friends, and if I remember correctly, occasionally exchange letters (I’m unsure about this bit, I might have read it in a different story). They just get along remarkably well; I imagine they both share a kind of mutual respect for each other, a quiet understanding for the way the other woman carries herself: poised, meticulous, they pride themselves in their work, they both know how to handle an Ocean Of Secrets™, they're both accustomed to being under the spotlight of the public eye, and they’re both dedicated to their loved ones. Needless to say, Fleur and Narcissa are both giddy over the prospect of being with someone they love and adore, and end up meticulously planning numerous (I think it was hinted) double dates (Fleur with Bill, and Narcissa with Hermione) with the same kind of endearing enthusiasm that leave Hermione and Bill with no choice but to agree to the whims of their respective lovers.

(Scene seen in Chapter 23: Build Up Your Defense 2 of 2)

Narcissa and (Hermione) I were sitting together on one of the couches when Bill and Fleur arrived later. They showered Teddy with kisses on his little cheeks. He'd gotten past his clingy phase and adored us all, struggling to walk around the room by bracing himself on everyone's knees.

Suddenly Narcissa reached up and grabbed onto someone's wrist behind her head. "Don't even think about it," she said.

"That's just scary. How did you know I was there?" George stood up from behind the couch, a toy spider dangling from his hand. Teddy shrieked with laughter.

"She has eyes in the back of her head," Draco said.

"Mothers," George grumbled, sitting down close to Angelina. "Dump her, Hermione. I need you to date someone more prankable."

Fleur looked in surprise at the two of us on the couch. "Oh, la vache! How did I not know zees? You are lovers?"

"We're dating," I said mildly, though we really were lovers. In every sense. I glanced at Narcissa and bit my lip as heat spread through me. My imagination started planning a middle-of-the-night rendezvous.

"No wonder she (Narcissa) was so adamant about healing that curse," Bill said thoughtfully.

"Adorable! Simply adorable!" Fleur exclaimed, sitting down on Narcissa's other side. "We must go out for a double date next week, all four of us. We'll dine at L'Escargot!"

Narcissa's eyes lit up.

"Oh, no," I said.

"You won't have to eat snails," Narcissa said. "Please, mon amour?"

"French doesn't work on me."

"Please?" She kissed my cheek again and again. "Please? Please?"

Laughing now, I pulled her in for a kiss on the lips and said, "Yes, alright. But only because I have fond memories of trying new foods with you."

"As do I," she agreed.

Then we realized everyone was staring. Narcissa cleared her throat and straightened up, blushing. Draco made a face. Ginny looked a little more favorable. Harry held in laughter, and Andromeda hid her camera.

"Adorable!" Fleur declared again.

🔹 Also, I just have to add Sugar and Spice by waltzlikeits1698 because Chapter 4: Happy Birthday, Harry is absolutely hysterical. During Harry's birthday party, Hermione sulks in a corner because Fleur has apparently been avoiding her. Ginny decides to do something barking mad, something Hermione typically falls for.

“Ooh, someone’s grouchy,” Ginny teased, retracting her arm and facing Hermione fully. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Hermione insisted, although even she could hear the pout in her voice.

“Sure seems like it,” she snarked, summoning two shots and offering one to Hermione with a waggle of her eyebrows. Hermione pulled a face and Ginny shrugged before downing both, one after the other. (...) “You know, I spotted a tall, blonde drink of water hanging around the stairs.”

“What!?” Hermione exclaimed, whirling around and leaning out of the room to look at the staircase. Sure enough, standing at the bottom and resting a slender hand on the bannister was a tall, blonde witch who made Hermione’s heart stop with her mere presence. She had started forward before she knew it, her heart taking up an even quicker beat as she crossed the few steps and reached out a hand to clasp her elbow. The woman turned, that beautiful blonde hair catching the candlelight as it moved in one long sheet.

Hermione retracted her hand in horror, her eyes widening. “Mrs Malfoy!?”

Narcissa Malfoy raised an eyebrow at the witch who had practically accosted her. “Miss Granger. Can I help?”

What was she even doing here?

“Uh,” Hermione said dumbly, “sorry, I just… need the loo. Can I-?”

She gestured lamely to the staircase. Both women stared at the perfectly reasonable gap that Hermione could easily pass through. The moment stretched on.

Slowly, Narcissa returned her inscrutable gaze to Hermione, who squirmed uncomfortably in response. She then took a small step to the side and gestured for Hermione to pass. She did so and, as she turned the corner of the staircase, sent a deadly glare at Ginny, who was practically pissing herself with laughter.

(...)

Fleur had arrived. Hermione couldn’t explain exactly how she could tell, considering she had been in the duplicated bathroom for the last ten minutes after humiliating herself in front of Narcissa, but she knew it like she knew that it was levi-O-sa.

(...) (Hermione) She tried to avoid eye contact with Narcissa on the way back down and was thoroughly unsuccessful: the witch had physically reached out and laid her own hand over Hermione’s on the bannister, forcing her to stop and look up. Then, with an intention behind her eyes that Hermione had neither the brain capacity nor the energy to delve into, she said “It’s Ms Black now.”

Then she had released Hermione’s hand and turned back to her conversation with Andromeda and two wizards Hermione didn’t recognise.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of people Hermione didn’t recognise.

Anyway, long story short, this is the result of reading both Fleurmione and Cissamione—

But RIGHT. At the end of the day, again, these are just some crazy little things I picked up on and I may or may not be right, no one has to agree with me, everyone can disagree with me. Actually, yes feel free to disagree with me. I need to get out of this damn site and you know, touch grass.

Okay. Well. I'm gonna stop here now. So. Bye. But thank you anon for this lovely ask!! I’m really touched that you wanted to know what inspired the way I drew Fleur 🥺💕💖 But still. So sorry for this massive word vomit!! 😂

[qwanderer]

What makes a Loki a Loki?

Loki is called upon to be a lot of different people. He’s been raised on Asgard, and that’s formed some of the more basic aspects of his personality and values, but at the same time he has attributes that have been consistently discouraged and pushed down by that culture, and we can see them step forward as he moves into situations where they are encouraged.

Throughout the canons, there are a lot of Lokis. Siege Loki, Lady Loki, Kid Loki and his murderer, Ikol, King Loki, and the God/Goddess of Stories. The earlier aspects I know only by secondhand information, but I’m very familiar with Loki from Young Avengers and Agent of Asgard, some of my favorite comics of all time. But I know some basic facts - the way the earliest Loki was a quintessential comic book villain full of pure simple theatrical mischief and ridiculous schemes, the fact that Lady Loki was a somewhat more sinister appropriator of bodies for her own use.

In my view, MCU!Loki has, at the very least, the same capacity to shift personalities depending on the circumstances, and I haven’t yet seen anything in the Loki show that’s thrown my suspension of disbelief with regards to his characterization.

I’ve seen some people rebel at the idea of Loki gleeful over the destruction of Pompeii and the causing of chaos it allowed, but it reminds me of some meta I wrote very early on in my years of meta-writing in the MCU. The values Loki was raised with, Asgardian values, sometimes treat death very lightly, especially death in battle, especially human or otherwise non-Aesir death. In the Aesir context, at least to a certain extent and certainly in terms of what we’ve seen Odin teach his sons onscreen, violence is honorable, fighting is an adventure, lives are cheap and Valhalla is the ultimate goal.

I think a lot of the central conflict of Loki’s character is that he follows some of these principles to their logical conclusions in situations that Aesir values never meant them to cover. If life is unimportant, then it won’t be so bad if I tell Thor that Odin is dead. If the throne of Asgard has dominion over all the Nine Realms, then why shouldn’t I rule Midgard?

But he also shifts the way he acts to suit the situation. He is a shifter, it’s what he does. On Asgard, he is expected to be a warrior, a dignified prince, a companion and support for his brother. The values are bravery and dignity, and so a lot of what he projects there is bravado and elegance, which are close enough for him to get by.

When he is taken by Thanos, the only things Thanos wants and values are power and death. So Loki becomes an avatar of power and death. He carries that with him to Earth, because he is still very much under the jurisdiction of Thanos. But he very quickly learns how to use and manipulate Earth values, like wit and pathos. They seem to fit him better than the others, and he carries them through the other movies and the different frameworks he finds himself in.

He also tends to carry Asgard with him, the knowledge that he’s a prince, destined to be a king, that he needs to carry himself a certain way, with that elegance, dignity and bravado.

When I see Loki in the first episode of the show, I recognize him as some of the deepest, most quintessential parts of Loki that have only been allowed to peek out on occasion before. And that is due to manipulation on Mobius’s part - Mobius makes it very clear what he expects of Loki. To get down to the very basic levels of him and find out his motivations, what makes him fundamentally himself - “What makes Loki tick?” There’s a quiet void there, and the only thing that’s being asked of Loki, for once, is that he sit down and fill that void with words - the truest and most sincere words possible.

There’s a clear and interesting divide between that phase for Loki, and the phase we see in episode two - Mobius has stopped providing that space, and in the interim, he’s made it very clear what he expects Loki to be like, what mold he’d prefer the trickster to fit into.

The hard-working, lovable scamp.

Loki is hiding his deepest self again, which we all do most of the time. Loki can’t feel that deeply and express that freely all the time. Because of the environment he’s in - which may not be any more or less free than any of the other environments he’s experienced - he expresses himself in a particular way. He is the hard-working, mischievous scamp Mobius has been pushing him to be.

I don’t think he’s any more or less himself than he’s ever been - he’s simply responding to different pressures. And the pressures of this episode press him very hard into the Neal Caffrey mold. Which is an interesting mold in itself - when I was writing White Collar fic, I made a point to distinguish who Neal was when he was with Peter and who he was under different circumstances - prison, witness protection, with Mozzie, with Kate. (I wrote an autistic Kate, and had him most freely himself when he was with her.)

Like Neal Caffrey, the Episode 2 Loki is treading a line between behaviors that will get him things because he’s useful and compliant, behaviors that will demonstrate that he’s into minor trickery for fun now and might not be getting up to anything bigger, and those bigger tricks that are definitely still running in the background. It’s the obvious balance for a trickster on a leash with an indulgent bureaucrat.

You can see that it’s a facade in the way that he is near tears when he sees the Ragnarok paperwork, but when he brings it to Mobius’s attention and Mobius expresses his sympathies, Loki says “Yes, very sad,” and then dismisses it in favor of moving on to his mischievous enthusiasm over the resulting theory he’s had.

Like all good lies, it’s built out of truth, so when I see this Loki, I see pieces of the Loki I know, just put together a little differently, which is how Loki seems to do it.

Although he’s not free as he might hope to be, and in fact threading a narrow path between a very constricting set of pressures, I do still think he’s enjoying the dropped expectations of dignity and elegance. I think he’s enjoying being in a culture that encourages him to be a geek. To go on about the things he’s passionate about and his areas of expertise. And I think that’s a lot of what unsettles people about this Loki, because that elegance and dignity have carried everywhere else with him. And I’m not going to argue that the TVA are doing anything nice for him - quite the contrary - but I still do enjoy seeing him able to be the geek he’s always had the inclination to be, in the right circumstances.

It makes me wonder, a little, how much his mother is on his mind right now, after the first episode, because if I had a guess, the last time he’s felt free to be this enthusiastic and expressive about his interests is in magic lessons with her as a child.

So. The other variant.

We know from the Lady Loki comics arc that Loki can possess other people’s bodies over the long term, and we know from kid!Loki and his murderer interacting in YA that the original occupant of a body can sometimes hang around and talk back, if only as a figment of his imagination. We know from most incarnations that Loki can go to a lot of dark places if the circumstances push him to it.

As I’ve said before, I’m intrigued by the question the difference between the two variants poses - how much different can two Lokis be before they are no longer meaningfully the same person?

We’ve got clues on both sides, of course - our scamp on a leash saying “I wouldn’t do this to myself” on the side of them being not the same person, and the vengeful goddess he’s chasing saying “I was afraid they’d found a better version of me” on the side of them being the same person.

The more I think about it, the more I’m willing to predict that this vengeful goddess is, in some way, an incarnation of Loki. But (be warned, I’m going to reference Stephenie Meyer now) it could be in as small a way as something out of The Host - a stolen body’s original personality fighting dirty against the invading spirit.

If this is something based on the character of Sylvie from the comics, it could still be anything from a person - human or Asgardian - chosen and manipulated by Loki to do his bidding, to a full-on possession, or even a body constructed for a specific purpose but developing its own personality traits.

We know this variant is a body hopper, and Mobius’s briefing mentioned that it’s an inherent ability of most Lokis to shapeshift, so there are a lot of potential explanations for this unfamiliar shape.

But the differences between the variants could also stem mostly from different experiences.

The only thing I’m at all sure of is that this variant has also been tortured by Thanos. It’s possible that she branched earlier - that the wild desperation of having freshly escaped Thanos translated into being dragged into the TVA like a cornered wildcat, on the raggedy edge and desperate enough to go all-out to get out of the collar while still in the custody of the minute men. Then, as she became familiar with the TVA in concept and execution, developed opinions and built a personality around taking them down, taking them apart the way she wished she could do to Thanos, the way Thanos did to her.

But she could also have branched later - after the destruction of Asgard, or when Thanos appeared on the refugee ship. After the worst has happened to her people. With some preexisting notion that time could have gone differently, that some things that had happened should not be allowed to happen.

I have a weak spot for interactions between incarnations of Loki in the comics, so I am incredibly eager to see the MCU’s take on this.

[bluejayblueskies]

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Two: running water Words: 4.3k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Nonsexual Intimacy

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

"How are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five| Chapter Six| Chapter Seven

Or read below:

(cw for nonsexual nudity, mild blood, mentions of death)

Jon knows three things, in that moment.

One: that Martin’s jumper is sure to be stained with tea for the foreseeable future, given that their laundry situation is abysmal and that he can feel the liquid seeping into the cuff and creeping up the sleeve towards his elbow.

Two: that either he is experiencing an incredibly vivid hallucination (unlikely) or still asleep (even more unlikely), or a woman he saw die what feels like a lifetime ago is standing in front of him, looking as if she’s been dragged through mud and brambles and dressed in a shirt and trousers that look about two sizes too big.

Three: there is no longer the gentle rumble of water coming from the bathroom.

“Jon,” Daisy says again, voice rough as if from disuse and eyes still blown wide—human eyes, Jon notes, not the slitted yellow things that he’d seen as sharp teeth had dug their way into the meat of his calf. A particularly hard gust of wind sends the hem of her shirt fluttering, and Daisy pulls it tightly around her, stepping fully inside the cottage and shutting the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Jon wants to say. His stomach is still twisted into knots, and he’s processing, processing, processing. There are yellow daisies on the kitchen table, and there are white daisies out amongst the grass and the weeds, and there’s Daisy, standing in front of him, but he had mourned her, he’d thought she was—

“Hey. Jon,” Daisy says, and then she’s standing in front of him, hand reached out halfway towards him like she can’t quite decide whether she’s allowed to touch. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She’s so close he could touch her, and before he really thinks about it, he’s reaching out and taking the hand that’s hanging in the air between them in his. He finds himself surprised when it doesn’t dissolve underneath his fingers, like he’d still been expecting all of this to be a dream, a falsehood, a sign that his mind is beginning a slow path towards disintegration without the Eye to hold it in place. He makes a choked-off sound, the kind that comes from the breath being punched out of one’s lungs by force rather than by any vibration of one’s vocal cords, as he adjusts his hand so he can thread their fingers together. It’s a familiar motion, bringing back memories of being buried underneath the weight of the earth and sat side-by-side in his office and curled up in the dustiness of document storage. He looks up at Daisy, eyes tracing the confused furrow of her brow and the strong slant of her nose and the thin scar that traces from the edge of her jaw to just below her ear, and squeezes her hand tightly, trying to convey every ounce of emotion he’s feeling in the weight of his eyes on hers.

“Jesus,” Daisy says after a moment, in that familiar way that’s both fond and exasperated, and Jon could cry. “Don’t look at me like that.” Then, after a moment: “I missed you too.”

That same choked sound comes out of Jon’s throat again, mangled by a laugh, and that’s all the encouragement he needs apparently before he’s standing and wrapping his arms around Daisy’s shoulders, giving her just enough time before he makes contact to step away if she wants to. She doesn’t, and when he presses his forehead against her shoulder and closes his eyes, she rests her hands gently against the small of his back, palms flat and grip loose enough that he could wriggle away if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop hugging her for the foreseeable future.

The foreseeable future turns out to be exactly 38 seconds, at which point the bathroom door creaks open and Martin’s voice floats into the kitchen. “Ugh, it’s cold in here. Jon, did you open the…”

Martin’s head appears from around the corner, wet curls sticking to his forehead. He’s wearing a cheery yellow jumper that matches the daisies on the table. Somewhere around the did you, Daisy had pulled back, and now she stands a few paces away from Jon, her face still carefully neutral but with a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there moments before. Jon holds one of his wrists with the opposite hand and watches Martin’s face crumple from an easy smile into shock, lips parted slightly and eyes wide as they fixate on Daisy.

“...door,” Martin finishes, his voice very small. “Um. D- daisy?”

Daisy raises a hand in a half-wave. “Hey.”

“What—?” Martin cuts off, opens and closes his mouth a few times. Finally, he says faintly, “What is happening right now.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen,” Daisy says simply. Then, with a frown: “My kitchen, actually.”

“Right, I guess it is…” Martin shakes his head, letting the sentence trail off into nothing. “Okay, then: how are you standing in our kitchen? I, uh. I kinda thought you died?” It’s said with a squeak, the word died barely audible, like Martin hadn’t quite been sure whether or not he should say it.

Daisy hums, her mouth pinching into a frown. “Don’t know. Kinda thought you might.”

“What? Why?”

Daisy shrugs. “I remember things. Bits and pieces, not a lot other than the blood, but I remember that the sky was… different. A lot more eyes. And the fear was… more. I remember the hunt, and I remember you.” She looks uncomfortable, and her eyes find Jon before glancing off. “Familiar blood. Basira. Pain. And then I woke up.”

Martin blinks. “You… woke up?”

Daisy nods. “Didn’t know where I was, just that it was cold and that the sky was normal again. I think I was in a field somewhere, just… covered in dirt and blood.” Her lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile. “Gave the farmer who found me quite a fright, I think. But the look on his face when he saw me… I knew it had all been real.” She exhales, a breathy laugh that’s not really a laugh at all. “The word really ended, huh.”

“Yeah,” Martin says quietly. Next to Daisy, Jon shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, so many words building at the back of his throat that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He looks over at Daisy—at the dirt smudged along the side of her face, the bits of moss and leaves tangled in her hair, blood dried and rusty-red on her hands and wrists and crusted underneath her nails—and decides that if he can’t talk, at least that, he can help with.

He reaches over and takes Daisy’s hand in his, tugging it gently yet meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom. She looks over at him, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. “What?”

Jon blows out a frustrated huff of air through his nose and sets his jaw, gripping Daisy’s hand tighter and beginning to cross the room to where Martin is standing, to the hallway that leads to the bathroom and the shower. There’s a moment of resistance, where Daisy digs her heels in and doesn’t move, but after a moment the resistance vanishes and she lets him guide her across the room and into the bathroom. As they pass Martin, he reaches for Jon’s free hand and holds it in his, just for a moment, squeezing lightly. “We’ll talk when you get done, okay?” he says, quietly yet firmly, which means saying no probably isn’t in the cards. That’s fine, Jon thinks; it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. (Except maybe that he doesn’t, not about any of this, but he elects to ignore that.) He just needs a bit of time between then and now, to fully adjust to the fact that Daisy’s hand is in his and she’s standing next to him and somehow, she’s alive.

So Jon nods once, tries (a bit unsuccessfully) to give Martin a reassuring smile, and finishes guiding Daisy to the bathroom.

Once the door is shut behind them, Jon lets go of Daisy’s hand and turns to face her, suddenly unsure. He’s been assuming that everything’s as it was before—that they’re still friends, that she still trusts him with her vulnerabilities, that she would still be willing to accept help from him—but what if it’s not? What if, despite what she said and despite the way she looked at him and despite the way her hands felt when they rested lightly upon his back as he’d hugged her, she doesn’t remember him like that? The Hunt is gone—they’re all gone, Jon thinks, though he can’t Know for certain and that scares him more than he’d care to admit—but he knows that the Eye has left its own scars on him, changed him in so many ways, so what if… what if she’s gone?

Maybe the Daisy Jon knew is still dead after all.

“Hey,” Daisy says, and then her hand is sitting heavy on his shoulder and she’s looking at him intensely. “Stop that. I can tell you’re overthinking things, so just… don’t. I’m here, I’m still me, and I could really use a shower, which I assume is why we’re in here.” She pauses, and then amends, “Well. It’s why I’m in here.”

Jon flushes, feeling a bit embarrassed, and steps away from her touch. He’s halfway through turning to go back out into the hallway when Daisy reaches out again, captures his wrist with the tips of her fingers, and says, “I didn’t say you had to leave.”

Jon pauses with his hand outstretched towards the door handle. I didn’t know if you’d want to be alone, he wants to say. He knows it had been hard, back in the Archives, for Daisy to be alone at all at first. Even though the air was clean and the walls weren’t close together, she’d said that sometimes, it still felt like she was choking down dirt, buried beneath the earth where nobody would ever find her again. She’d hated the sensation of running water too, and it had taken a few weeks for her to finally tell him why. That when it rained, the water would run in rivulets down her hands and the back of her neck, dripping sediment into her eyes and making her clothes stick to her in a way that became repulsive.

The Institute had one shower, situated between the Archives and Artefact Storage, meant for decontamination according to the signage on the wall. At some point during Jon’s coma, someone had stuck a shower basket to the tile wall, filling it with shampoo and conditioner and body wash, and had erected a haphazard system of rings, curtain, and rod around the showerhead to allow for a modicum of privacy. After they’d crawled out of the coffin, covered head-to-toe in dirt that seemed to permeate every inch of them, they’d walked together wordlessly to the room that contained the shower. Jon had offered to let Daisy use it first and had made to leave, but he’d been stopped by the tightening of Daisy’s hand in his, an unspoken desire to not be alone, not again.

So Jon had stood beside her and tangled his fingers loosely with hers through a gap in the curtain and had kept her company as she’d slowly, painstakingly washed six months of grime out of her hair and off her skin and out from underneath her nails, shuddering as the dirt turned to mud and slid in clumps off her skin. And when Jon had taken his own turn, scrubbing at his skin with a harsh, crisp efficiency, he’d pulled back the curtain with a towel wrapped around him to see Daisy leaning against the wall across from him, eyes fixed on the floor just in front of the shower as if she’d been reminding herself of Jon’s presence by the way his shadow fell across the floor beneath them.

It had become easy after that, to fall into a routine. Jon thinks he should have felt more vulnerable, more exposed. But he hadn’t. He’d just felt safe.

Now, he hesitates only a moment more before nodding and turning back from the door, and Daisy lets her hand drop from his wrist. She exhales heavily before stepping out of her clothing, letting it fall to the floor in a pile by her feet. Jon looks away, but not before he sees the blood on her skin—dried and cracked brown, mixed with smudges of dirt. He takes a breath, then looks back, taking a step forward and lifting a hand towards her stomach, hesitating halfway there and giving her a questioning look.

“It’s not mine,” Daisy says, reaching for Jon’s hand and settling it flat against her stomach. The skin there is smooth, unbroken, and when Jon drops his hand after a moment, it comes away clean. Her voice is strangely even, like she’s trying not to let any emotion slip through, when she says, “I think some of it might be yours, actually.”

That… makes sense, Jon thinks, even as the thought makes his stomach twist. He wants to ask what happened—why she’s still covered in blood and dirt, why she came in wearing clothing that wasn’t hers but otherwise unchanged, how she made it here, why she even decided to come here in the first place—but he can’t think of a way to do so without his notebook, which is still sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it. So instead, he sighs, steps around her, and turns on the shower, letting the water painstakingly warm up to a bearable temperature and periodically sticking his hand in the spray to check. As he does so, he can feel Daisy’s eyes on him, level and without much weight, yet curious and analytical in their own way. Finally, as the water reaches lukewarm and begins to climb to hot, she says, “Did something happen to you?”

Jon looks over at her, at the discerning slant to her mouth, and wants to laugh. Did something happen. It feels like the understatement of the century. He rolls his eyes and nods, hoping that it’ll give off the proper amount of yes, but you’ll have to be more specific, and sticks his hand back in the spray, satisfied to find it finally at the proper temperature.

“You know what I mean,” Daisy says, her tone no-nonsense but soft around the edges, like she’s taking care with how she proceeds. “I can see it on your face, Jon—you’re dying to ask questions, but for some reason, you’re not. From you, that means that you’re physically unable to ask them. So something must have happened.” She taps her fingers on her arms where they’re crossed over her chest and gives him a searching look. “Suppose it’s got something to do with the fact that the Eye’s gone, along with the rest of them?”

Jon’s not surprised that she knows. He’d felt the severance of the Eye from him almost as acutely as the knife slicing through the skin and muscle of his chest, like the snap of a thousand threads in his mind, and it had been agony. Even if she hadn’t felt it herself, being… dead, or something, the Eye’s absence for him is like a constant ache, and he keeps reaching for it instinctively only to find that part of him missing, like the ghost of an amputated limb. He doesn’t have to Know to know that she can feel the absence of the Hunt, gone in a way that’s equally as relieving as it is painful. But he still hesitates because it’s not… it’s not as simple as the Eye just being gone.

He doesn’t know why his voice is gone. Not for certain. But he can’t help but remember Annabelle’s words, see her running her fingers along the tape-strung webs that had taken his voice, and wonder that if when the Fears and the tapes that bound them were whisked away into other worlds, they weren’t so keen to return what had been given to them.

He nods, then hesitates and, after a moment, shrugs. He pulls his hand out of the water and gestures towards it, a clear go on, but Daisy doesn’t move—just keeps staring at him. “Hm,” she says after a moment, then shrugs and uncrosses her arms. “Would’ve thought it would have been the eyes, but the voicebox makes sense too, I guess.”

She steps past him and into the shower, making a face as the water hits her back and begins to run down it, bringing with it trails of brown and red that drip dark onto the tile floor. She doesn’t see him raise his hand and ghost his fingers lightly against his throat, just beneath his chin, feeling the thin scar that sits there raised and smooth beneath his fingers. He’d been surprised too, he supposes, once the shock of everything else had worn off, that he’d been left mute and not blind. But the more he’d poked and prodded at the aching bruise the Eye had left behind, the more he’d decided that it wasn’t quite the same kind of severance. Melanie’s had been a clean break, like snipping a thread—intentional and without much resistance. Jon’s had been… messier. And neither side had wanted to let go.

“I don’t remember the water pressure being so awful,” Daisy says a bit sullenly, and Jon drops his hand like he’s been burned. She’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he knows she’d seen it, but she doesn’t mention it. He gives her a small smile and shrugs again, then frowns and, without really thinking about it, steps closer so he can tug out a small leaf that had been stuck in a tangle of Daisy’s hair. It hangs between his fingers for a moment before he drops it, letting it flutter to the tile and get swept away towards the drain.

Daisy looks at him, something unreadable in her eyes, and for a moment, he thinks he’s done something wrong—that it’s not like that between the two of them any longer. Then, Daisy turns and grabs the shampoo bottle off the shelf beside her, extending it towards him with one eyebrow raised. “If you’re going to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful,” she says, and Jon almost melts with relief, because the slight edge of softness in her voice—the way her words sound like a command but are instead an offer—is just as familiar to him as it had been so many months ago.

He takes the bottle, squeezes a small puddle of pale white that smells of vanilla into the center of his hand, and steps close enough that he can reach her hair. She tilts her head back slightly, accommodating for the few inches of height difference between them, and allows him to work the shampoo into her hair, scratching his nails against her scalp and working out bits of dirt and small twigs and sand that gets underneath his nails. He has so many things he wants to say to her since they’ve last been able to see each other like this, the first of which had come to him the moment he’d turned his back on her and Basira and fled into the damp, musty darkness of the tunnels. I need you to be safe, he’d thought, and he’d almost turned back so he could say it, sure that it could help somehow. Instead, he’d grit his teeth and kept running, because he’d known what she would say in return after she’d finished yelling at him for coming back just to say that. (If she was still able to yell, his mind had supplied unhelpfully. If she still had a jaw and tongue with which to form words.)

You don’t need me for anything, she would have said, and she would have been right. But that didn’t stop the want that crept into his bones as he ran through twisting corridors and dense fog, into his skin as he stepped into a dimly-lit cottage in the Scottish Highlands, into his stuttering heart as he stared up at a sky that stared back, unblinking and loving, and Knew that she was gone, running through this new and changed world with nothing but the smell of blood and the taste of fear driving her forward. He wanted her to be safe.

He’d wanted a great many things, back when the world was twisted and wrong.

He’d wanted her beside him, someone who would understand what it was like to be utterly consumed by that which you served and who knew what it was like to feel like a monster. He’d wanted to help her breathe around the sharp teeth in her mouth and to unclench her fingers where her claws dug into her palms and to talk her down from rumbling growls to heavy, labored breaths. He’d wanted to Look and see her happy, but to see her, rather than something that had once been Daisy but that now barely resembled the woman he had pulled out of the coffin. More than anything, he’d just wanted to see her. To talk to her. To be with his friend.

I’ve missed you, he thinks as he runs his fingers through Daisy’s hair, coarser than he remembers but still the same pale copper color, and watches the suds rinse slowly off as she shifts so she’s standing directly under the showerhead. His sleeves are growing a bit damp, even pushed up to the elbows as they are, and he pulls his hands back, letting them hang uncertainly in the air for a moment before he rubs them dry against one of the towels. And I wish I could tell you.

Once the water has run clear, Daisy shuts the shower off with a sigh and gathers a towel in her arms, rubbing it over her head and back with brisk efficiency. Her hair lies damp and heavy down her back as she wraps the towel around her. Jon’s fingers itch to separate her hair into thirds and pleat it into a loose braid like she’d always allowed him to do when he’d been feeling the loss of his own hair—shaved to the scalp during the coma, just barely grown to the tips of his ears—particularly deeply, but he keeps his hands by his side. Daisy looks at him, and after a moment, she says, “It’s weird not hearing your voice.” Then, softer: “I’m sorry it’s gone.”

Jon might cry. He nods instead, just once, and reaches for the door handle, pausing to give Daisy the chance to stop him before turning it and opening the door.

Martin isn’t there anymore. Jon can hear movement in the kitchen, glass clanking together, the sizzle of something in a pan. It smells of cumin and coriander. He nods at Daisy and leads her to the bedroom, kneeling and digging through the suitcase they’d never quite gotten around to unpacking before he unearths a pair of trousers he’s nearly certain will fit and a dark blue hoodie that only makes him flush a little bit at as he thrusts it towards Daisy.

She takes them without comment, and by the time he’s rearranged the remaining items inside the suitcase and stood, she’s swapped out the towel for the clothing. The trousers are a bit short, but they’ll do, Jon thinks, until they can run into town and get something else.

Then, Daisy plucks the hem of the hoodie between two fingers and says, amused, “Is this mine?”

Jon’s flush grows in intensity, and he covers it with a frown and a little huff of air through his nose. This only seems to amuse Daisy more; she lets out a small breathy laugh to match, drops the hem of the hoodie, and says, “Don’t look so grumpy. It’s sweet.” As Jon sputters soundlessly, she continues, “Have you had this the whole time? I was wondering where it went. Did you wear any of your own clothes in the Archives?”

Jon’s frown deepens into a scowl without any heat, and he looks away.

“Going to take that as a no.” Then, at Jon’s glower: “Relax, Jon. I’m just teasing.” Long fingers reach out and tug at the hem of his own jumper, and Daisy says with an audible smile, “Nice to see you’re still wearing Martin’s jumpers.” Then, a touch softer: “And that he’s here to give them to you.”

Jon flushes again for an entirely different reason, less of a shock of heat and more like a warmth that spreads over him like a blanket. He looks over at Daisy to see her watching him with a faint smile on her lips, and beneath it, a touch of satisfaction. It’s warranted, he supposes, given how much time he’d spent bemoaning Martin’s absence and sending wistful looks towards the ceiling and, enough times to be embarrassing, burying his face in the sleeves of Martin’s jumpers after a few too many drinks and trying to pick out the lingering smell of Martin amongst the must of the Archives that had begun to permeate them.

He looks down at where Daisy’s fingers are still gripping the hem of the jumper, a smile that’s happier than anything he’s worn in what feels like years rising to his lips. He’s wearing Martin’s jumper, in a safehouse in the Scottish Highlands, and Daisy is standing in front of him, and there is sunlight filtering in through the curtains, and there are no eyes heavy on the back of his neck or rust-red blood sitting in the back of Daisy’s nostrils, and they’re safe. Daisy’s here, with him, and Martin is in the other room cooking, and this is real. And he knows things will grow complicated again, likely as soon as they exit the bedroom and have to face the reality of how she’s here, but for now, there’s only this. And Jon intends to enjoy every moment of it that he can get.

[threewaysdivided]

How do you feel about Pink Astronaut. Personally I feel like Paulina deserved a little better than the writers gave her.

I'm 99% sure that's the ship name for Danny x Paulina, right?

(Which probably says a lot about my engagement with the shipping side of the Phandom 😅.)

TBH I don't have any strong thoughts or feelings about it either way.

In all cases I'm a very gen-focussed fan - my interests tend run more in the direction of character psychology, non-romantic platonic/ familial relationships, lore, mystery and theme. It's a personal thing but I just don't read romantic/sexual intent/attraction into character interactions unless they're explicitly framed/intended as such and the way much of the shipping community seems to do so goes completely over my head.

Which isn't to say that I avoid all ship-fics, or that there aren't a number of noncanon ships that I enjoy across different fandoms, but for the most part I favour genfic and when I do read shipfic they tend to be the stories that focus on personality, emotional chemistry and personal/emotional compatibility. And when it comes to thinking about "ships" myself I tend to lean more towards times when characters have canonically expressed that kind of interest, the reasons why they would be compatible/ find each other attractive, how they feel about it and what it says about them.

But back to Paulina:

I think you're right - as a character she (along with basically every human character outside of the main trio, the Fenton family and sometimes Valerie) suffers massively from underdevelopment because of the show's nature as for the most part an episodic kid's superhero-comedy with an ooky-spooky gimmick. Danny Phantom the show is a place where The Status Quo is God and the Rule of Funny/Cool/Drama supersedes everything, up to and including the characters and their consistency.

(You can even see this and the obviously conflicting visions of different parts of the creative team effect the main characters too. Danny suddenly carrying the Jerk Ball in service of a generic "don't be superficial/ materialism is bad" story in Livin' Large, how Tucker is basically learning the same lesson twice across What You Want and King Tuck, the multiple times where Sam's more abrasive negative traits are used as a source of plot/conflict but are never meaningfully addressed or developed because the writers want to keep using those traits for drama and eventually to use her character as the Morally Righteous Generic Love Interest Behind Danny's Heroism... et cetera et certera et cetera.)

Literally every character in DP is done a disservice by the show's writing and Paulina runs into the same problem. She's chained to the post of a very specific narrative function/ character archetype and never intentionally developed beyond what's needed to serve the Plot/ the Joke.

She's clearly written to be the Rich Plastic Mean Girl à la Regina George, and while there is a potentially very interesting character beneath that surface appearance - which we can see in places like Parental Bonding where she shows emotional intelligence by immediately clocking that Sam is actually jealous of Danny's attraction to her, and in her "if my skin is perfect, I'll be perfect" line from My Sister's Keeper which hints at some potentially significant appearance-based self-worth issues - the show itself basically only ever uses her "Pretty Girl" and "Popular A-Lister" status as a source of surface-level character drama for the trio and as a rare plot-convenient situational ally in dire circumstances. Her actions show a consistent characterisation but it's so rudimentary that it barely clears that archetype to become its own thing.

I think if Danny Phantom had taken more structural and tonal influence from Spiderman (or even something like Disney's Kim Possible) rather than Fairly Odd Parents - still keeping things mostly light-hearted but with some extra focus on character consistency and layering some ongoing character arcs over each season - there could have been a lot of potential to develop and flesh out Paulina as a narrative foil/ ongoing rival to Sam and her own character arc. It also could have added some more meaningful non-stereotypical female character dynamics, which are disappointingly but perhaps not surprisingly lacking from a "for boys" Nicktoon headed by a man who named himself "Butch". But as it is she unfortunately falls into that No Man's Land for me, where she isn't developed enough to have much deeper canon worth investigating and isn't really thematically/narratively significant enough that I'd want to develop her myself for story purposes.

As for the Pink Astronaut ship itself, all I can say is that, at least for me, canonically it... isn't really one. At least in terms of what I personally characterise as a 'relationship'. It's stuck at a very shallow level; Danny has a superficial surface-level infatuation with Paulina because she's pretty and popular, and Paulina looks down on "geeky dork loser" Danny Fenton while having a superficial surface-level infatuation with Danny Phantom as "the cute ghost-boy who rescued her". There's no real sense of actual personal chemistry based on them knowing, appreciating or even seemingly caring to know who the other is as a character. None of their "romantic" hijinks really involve them learning anything meaningful about each other or even having a proper conversation. Paulina "dates" Fenton purely to piss off Sam, then "Paulina" shows personal interest in Danny but it turns out to actually be Kitten trying to piss off Johnny, and when she does show interest in him after the reveal in Reality Trip it's kind of obvious that it's because she's interested in dating Phantom and his secret identity wouldn't have mattered either way. And meanwhile Danny spends most of his time either too busy with ghost stuff to properly pay attention to her as a person, or he never really shows any interest or understanding beyond his fantasies about how she's very conventionally pretty (which he finds attractive/desirable) and popular (which he wants to be).

So while there's a lot of potential for people to write that ship in terms of them being two very different characters from different backgrounds who come to learn about each other as people, come to appreciate each other on a personality level and develop an actual romantic/emotional connection based on that... within the show itself that surface level is sort of where it starts and ends.

And like I said, I'm not a shipper. Even with the bigger, more canonically-substantiated ships I look for the personalities moreso than the romance.

So I don't really have any strong thoughts or feelings about it either way.

Sorry if that's not a satisfying answer.

But I do agree: like most DP characters, Paulina Sanchez has a lot more character potential than the writing allowed her.

[noladyme]

La Cuervo - Chapter 15

She is used to the biker-life, having grown into a woman in the familiar embrace of SAMCRO. A bad decision and a gun-shot later, she gets whisked off to Santo Padre, and put under the protection of another club. What is supposed to be a short stint in the Mayan headquarters just north of the border to Mexico, turns into something more; when la quervo begins to develop feelings for el angel - and he seems to return them in kind...

TW: violence, blood, drug use, alcohol, smut, fluff, angst

In the spirit of "The Crown Princess of Charming", this is a story about O.C. Nina and Angel Reyes. It is obviously non-canon, as characters who have passed on on Mayans M.C. are present in it, and others have been excluded completely. Nina is written as a cis-female, but I have tried to keep her race and looks as ambigous as possible. Should you find any of this story offensive, please let me know.

15.

“What the fuck did you do?”, Nina almost screamed. Filip moved his hands in a calming gesture. “Calm down, las’. There’s still a shitload of 7-year-olds downstairs”, he said. “I’m sure the mom is over the hills at the Mayan parade you’ve had set up!”, Nina snarled. She panicked, and began heaving for breath. She almost tripped over her own feet to reach her bag with her inhaler, but Tig made it to it before her, dug it out, and threw it to Filip; who pressed the canister top, and held it to Nina’s lips. She sucked in the powder, and felt air returning to her lungs. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”. “It’s fine, Nina. Everything is fine”, Filip said, and rubbed her back soothingly.

Nina ran for her bag. ”I can’t be here right now”, she said. “Good, because you won’t be for long”, Filip said. “What are you talking about?”. “You’re going home, little sister”, he smiled. She scoffed at him, and grabbed her bag. Before she could reach the stairs, T.O. once again blocked her way. “My knee. Your balls. Move!”, Nina growled. “Try me, kid”, T.O. grinned. She tried for pleading instead. “You don’t know… Please just let me go. I can’t go back. I can’t do that to… Please!”. The sound of feet on the stairs made Nina’s knees buckle, and T.O. swept her away to go sit on a stool by the bar. “Please, Taddarius…”, Nina whispered. “This is how it has to be”, T.O. replied. “Now keep your ass in that seat until we tell you otherwise”.

The Sons all gathered to greet the incoming guests. Bishop came up first, giving Filip a half hug. “It’s cold as fuck up here”, he said. “It’s 70 degrees, you didn’t come to Alaska”, Filip laughed. Bishop gave him a friendly smile, before greeting Tig. The rest of the Mayans came up behind Bishop, each in turn greeting the Sons. Nina wanted to crawl into a hole, but they all seemed to pretend like she didn’t exist; at least for now. Only EZ shot her a half smile, as he came up behind the full patches. She looked down at her hands, unable to return the gesture. When she finally lifted her eyes again, she scanned the faces of the Mayans. She saw that neither Gilly, Creeper or Angel was among them; and she was unsure whether to feel relieved or distraught at the fact that her former lover wasn’t there. Of course he doesn’t want to see me, she thought to herself. Nina didn’t know why they were there. It would be in MC fashion to throw her into a van, and drive her back to Santo Padre, to force her to fulfill her one-year promise, or lock her up in a dark room with a couple of rattlesnakes as punishment for going back on her deal; but she was also sure that SAMCRO wouldn’t let her get hurt, so the snakes seemed less likely.

Rat came up the stairs. “The mom decided to take the kids to the Chuck-E-Cheese down the road instead”, he said. “Good riddance”, Filip grinned. “Means we can break out the whiskey. Nina…?”. He looked at her meaningfully. Take you place behind the bar, he seemed to be saying. She slowly got to her feet, and slipped behind the counter, taking down the top shelf scotch. It was set up next to the framed picture of Jackson and her, at Nina’s no-baby-on-the-way-shower. Jax had a cigarette hanging from his lips, and his arm hung casually over her shoulders. In his free hand, he held a packet of condoms and birth control pills; and his grin was brighter than the sun. She’d always been impressed at how he’d managed to smile so widely, without letting his cigarette fall from his lips. Nina looked happy and a bit drunk in the picture, and her eyes were locked on her brother; full of awe and familiar love. Tearing herself from the memory of one of the happiest nights of her life, Nina lined up a row of glasses, and began pouring. Her hands were shaking, and she spilled some of the whiskey on the counter.

“Let me do that”, EZ said, having appeared next to her. Nina swallowed thickly, and handed him the bottle; before wiping her hands. “It’s a long ride to take from San Pad”, she said quietly. “We made a pitstop in San Bernardino”, EZ said, and shot her a look. “Oh…”, Nina said, and had to swallow again to wet her throat. “And Creeper, Angel and Gilly are holding down the fort at the scrapyard, I take it…?”. She deliberately didn’t mention Angel first or last, to make her seem indifferent. “Not exactly… Creep and Gilly are”. He sounded like he wanted to say more, but decided against it. Nina sighed deeply. “EZ, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… I’m just sorry”, she said bellow her breath. “I know, hermanita”, he said. “We’re good”. He shot her a smile, that reminded her how too precious for this world he was, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him.

Gathering the glasses on a tray, she went over to serve the bikers, who had gathered around a couple of tables. Serving first Filip and Bishop, her eyes met the Mayan’s for a split second. His gaze was enough to make her want to fall to her knees and plead for forgiveness. He didn’t look angry, or even like he wanted an apology; but he did look like he had a couple of things he wanted to say – it just wasn’t the time. Once she got to Coco, he looked up at her, and winked slyly. A smile ghosted her face, and she went back behind the bar.

The bikers all sat and shared road-stories for a while, with the Mayans needing to relax and feel solid ground under their feet. Nina grabbed her cigarettes, and started for the stairs. Tig got in her way, and gave her a knowing look. “Not running… I just need a moment”, she said. She held out her little finger. “Pinky-swear”, she added. He smiled, crooked his own finger with hers, and kissed her forehead; before letting her pass, and walk down the stairs.

---

A couple of broken balloons and an unused piñata littered the floor of the ice-cream shop. She picked up the brightly-colored cardboard mule, and set it down on the counter, before getting behind it, and lighting a cigarette. Digging through the freezer, she found the strawberry-marshmallow ice-cream, and scooped a couple of spoonfuls into a bowl; immediately digging in. She sat for a while, smoking and eating the ice-cream, and stared into the dead eyes of the piñata. It was probably full of small packets of organic raisins, and Nina frowned at it; before punching it, and making it fly across the room. It broke open, and revealed bags of dried apricots. “Would have been better with condoms…”, she muttered to herself, and put some more ice-cream into her mouth.

“What did he ever do to you?”, Taza said from the doorway. Nina gulped down the frozen treat, and smiled embarrassedly. “She was full of shit…”, Nina replied. Taza chuckled, and went to sit across from her. “Got any pecan?”. She dug through the freezer again, and fixed a bowl for the VP; topping it off with some whipped cream and a bright cherry. “Dig in”, she smiled. Taza took a spoonful in his mouth, and smiled brightly. “This place sure as hell beats the scrap-yard”, he said. “Just wait until I whip out the sprinkles”, Nina grinned.

It was strange sitting there with Taza. They’d spoken when she was with the Mayans, but they hadn’t been especially close. She respected and liked him though; and knew that she would have come to care for him deeply, if she’d stayed longer in Santo Padre. “How have you been, kid?”, Taza asked. Nina couldn’t lie. “Not good”, she muttered. “All of this… I feel like shit for going back on my promise to you”. Taza raised a meaningful brow at her. “And you miss Angel”, he said. Nina nodded. “But this is how it has to be. I can’t go back to Santo Padre. It’s not safe”. “We’ll keep you safe”, Taza said. “It’s not about me”, she replied.

Tazza sighed. “I was in love once… He was my one and only; and when I lost him… I was destroyed. I threw in my patch, and gave up…”. Nina was surprised at the sudden sharing of heart. “But you’re still Mayan", she said. “This isn’t the first patch I’ve worn", Taza said. “Years ago, I rolled with Palo. I was a Vato”. “You?”, Nina askes disbelievingly. Taza gave her a soft smile. “I wasn’t always the intelligent gentleman outlaw you see before you now”. Nina let a smile ghost her face. “Well, if you were going to pick up a cut again, you chose the right patch, in my opinion”, she said, before frowning deeply. “If my opinion even matters anymore”. “It does, kid. You’ve become family to us”, Taza said. He took her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "But the reason I’m telling you this, is because Angel is family as well. And he’s not doing very good right now”. A jolt of pain and fear went through Nina’s body. “What did he do?”, she whispered. “He did what I did, when I lost my Davíd…”, Taza said, and let go of her hand.

Realization struck, and Nina felt her already broken heart break even more. “He left the club?”, she croaked. Taza sighed deeply. “He came on the lot a few nights ago, drunk off his ass… He threw his cut at Bishop’s feet”, he said. “I believe his exact words were; None of this shit means shit anymore. Fuck this shit”. Nina frowned deeply. “He’s not exactly eloquent when he’s drunk, is he…?”. Taza chuckled. “No… But he was speaking from the heart. He seems to have lost his meaning to everything”, he said. “To Angel, his path with the club lead to you. When you left… that path didn’t make sense anymore”. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. That’s why I left”, Nina said quietly. She chewed her lips for a moment. “And I hate that he is in pain… but at least my leaving didn’t get him killed. If I’d stayed…”. “He would have died?”, Taza asked. “Not him”, Nina croaked. “Hmm”, Taza said shortly.

Before tears could reach her eyes, Nina turned around, and threw her bowl into the sink. She cleared her throat, and shook herself. “Besides, Daniella will get him back on track… In whatever way she can. She’s pretty dead-set on being in his life”. Taza frowned. “You should come upstairs; listen in on the meeting”. Nina felt a chill go through her. “What did you do?”, she croaked. “She wasn’t the snitch!”. “We know… Still; come on”. He got to his feet, gave the piñata a slight kick; and went towards the back door. Nina followed behind him; heart racing, and worried about what she was about to hear.

---

“Welcome to church!”, Filip said, as all the bikers had sat down. Nina slipped through the door as quietly as she could, and went to take her designated seat by the door. She had her own chair there, for when she was asked to join a meeting for one reason or another. It wasn’t often, but it would happen on occasion, when SAMCRO were planning to receive out of town guests, and they needed her to set up the party; or when they needed to prove to themselves how very gender-inclusive they were. She still couldn’t sit at the table though. EZ was stood next to the chair, leaning against the wall, as he had the time, she’d been called in to templo at the scrap-yard.

Filip continued. “So, you’ve come to take away our girl again”, he said. “We have, yeah”, Bishop replied. He sat at the opposite end of the table, facing Filip. The great presidents were convening. “She promised us a year, and she left after less than a month”. He shot Nina a look, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Is that all? Because if it is, I’m sure we can come to some monetary agreement”, Filip said. “Nina claims it would be unsafe for her to return to San Pad. I know we agreed that we’d let you take her back there; but we’re not about to force her to go anywhere, unless we’re absolutely positive she’ll be in no danger”. “We kept Nina perfectly safe while she was with us. Any fear she felt was unfounded”, Taza said.

“You’re wrong!”. The words fell from Nina’s mouth, before she was able to stop them. “I’m sorry”, she muttered. “No, my love. Continue”, Filip said. Tig nodded encouragingly at her. “I can’t go back… It’s not about my own safety… Just, please!”, Nina pleaded. “You year is not up, and we need you at the clubhouse”, Bishop said calmly. “That’s it? You came to Charming six man strong, driving for 8 hours; just for Nina’s well served whiskey sours?”, Filip chuckled. “Might be her perky attitude”, Tig said, and looked at Nina. She grimaced at him. “Look! So cute…”. Nina desperately tried to make up a reason why she couldn’t go back to Santo Padre. Daniella would call Sala the moment she saw her; she was sure of it. Those two little boys would be dead within hours. In the end she sighed. “Ok… I’ll go with you… But not to Santo Padre. Take me somewhere else, lock me up in the dark and… sell my kidneys. I don’t care, I just can’t be seen in San Pad!”.

Bishop frowned deeply. “We’re not gonna hurt you, Nina. We care about you… But our club is in deep shit without you”. “What are you talking about?”, Quinn asked. It was one of the first times Nina had heard him speak at the table. He was still growing into his confidence as a member of SAMCRO; after his years as a nomad. Bishop looked at Nina. “Someone killed Daniella. We believe it was the Vatos Malditos”, he said. Nina gasped, and almost slid from her chair. “Oh god… Oh fuck!”, he croaked. “She was… What happened?”. “Someone let it slip to the Vatos that the woman who killed Palo’s primo was hooking up with Angel; and publicly, that was Daniella”, Hank said. Nina shot an angry look at Bishop, reminded of his master plan of making Angel treat Daniella as his old-lady. “Involved; like…?”, Rat asked. His pureness was almost too much to handle. “What, you wanna know the positions?”, Coco chuckled. “Probably doggy… reversed cowgirl… Sixty-nine…”. Nina pulled off her sneaker, and threw it at the Mayan’s head. He ducked, and narrowly escaped her attack. “That’s my sister you’re talking about”, Filip growled. “She’s a lady. Good old-fashioned missionary is more like it. Good access to the tits…”. Nina took off her other sneaker, and threw it at Filip, hitting him in the chest. “Ow!”, he exclaimed, and threw the shoe back at her. The was a rumble of chuckles around the table. “Are you done laughing at my sex-life?”, she sneered. “Fucking wannabe man-whores probably wouldn’t know a good wheelbarrow if it hit you in the face!”. “Are you sure you want her back?”, Happy chuckled. She shot him a venomous look. “What’s a wheelbarrow?”, Rat muttered. T.O. whispered in his ear, and Rat visibly blushed.

After a moment of heavy breathing, Bishop’s former words hit Nina again. “Daniella’s dead? Do you know if she talked to anyone before she did?”. “As in ratted?”, Riz said. She nodded. “She didn’t. We know she wasn’t the snitch”, Bishop said. “A couple of days after you left, Angel broke a bottle of tequila, and threatened to shove it up her infected cunt, if she didn’t talk about what she knew about you. She spilled the beans on what she’d figured out, but swore up and down your secret was safe with her”. “It was kind of sickening to watch, actually”, Riz said. “Angel was taking her home, when he was crammed between two vans on the road. One of the drivers shot Daniella in the head with a .38”, Bishop said. “Angel…?”, Nina rasped. “He’s fine… physically. His bike was pretty banged up, because one of the vans bumped in to him”, Taza said. “He managed to drive it away, but it died out about two miles from Daniella’s body”.

Nina got to her feet, and began pacing the floor. She was hyperventilating, and shaking her hands in front of her; feeling a prickling sensation under her skin. “She… made me leave”, she rasped. “Daniella made me leave”. “How, niña?”, Coco said. Nina met his serious expression, and tears began falling from her eyes. “She found out about Abel and Thomas”, she said, and looked at Filip. “She said that if I didn’t break it off with Angel, and left Santo Padre, she’d let VM know about them…”. Once again heaving for breath, EZ came over to her and pulled her into his arms. “Do you need your inhaler?”, he whispered. “No, I’m just… Fuck”, Nina replied, and let herself be enveloped in his embrace.

“That absolute gash!”, Filip roared. Nina heard something break, and turned to see that Happy had picked up his chair and slammed it against the wall; making the legs shatter into small wooden splinters. Rat got up, and found a new chair for Happy. “I’ll call SAMDINO. Make sure Nero’s farm has some security for a while”, he muttered, and slipped out of the room. Happy sat down, and Quinn patted his shoulder calmingly. Tig looked like an actual nuclear bomb had gone off inside his head, and he had murder written all over his face. “Did they bury her yet? Because I want to rape her corpse with a knife!”. “She was cremated two days ago”, Taza muttered.

“Who are Abel and Thomas?”, Riz asked. “Jackson’s sons”, Filip said, his face grim. “He sent them to Norco with his ex-wife before he died; to keep them safe from the life… Hurting them – even threatening them – is a death sentence”. “Well, VM got there ahead of you”, Bishop said. “Nina, I’m sorry that you felt the need to keep this from us. We would have helped”. “Daniella had Sala on fucking speed-dial. You wouldn’t have been able to do anything”, Nina said. She pulled out of EZ’s arms, and stepped over to the table. Without another thought, she sat down on Rat’s free chair. Filip gave her a short nod. “I was just trying to protect my nephews”. “I get that”, Bishop said. “And I hope you know that we hold no grudge against you for leaving. I just wish we’d known, so this could have been cleared up sooner”. She gave him a sad but thankful smile. “And we still need you back”, Taza said.

Rat reentered the room, and when he saw Nina in his seat, he simply got another chair, and sat down next to Coco. The Mayan gave him a crooked smile, and nodded. “Packer is on his way to Norco”, he said. “I called Nero too, and he’s on high alert. He’s gonna call in his old gang-relations. The boys are safe”. Nina sighed deeply. Abel and Thomas would be safe; she knew it. Now she just needed to know the next step for herself. “What do you need me for?”, she asked Bishop. “Well, first of all, we want our brother back at the table”, Coco said. Bishop shot him a look, which Nina couldn’t quite read. “Palo figured out Daniella wasn’t Gael’s killer either”, Bishop said. “How?”, Nina asked. “Because the snitch sent him a picture of you and Gael dancing the night of his death”.

“Fucking hell…”, Filip said, receiving agreeing groans from the rest of the table. “Does he know where Nina is?”. “No, he hasn’t linked her to SAMCRO, but he remembers her from the party”, Taza replied. “He wants us to hand you over, Nina”, Bishop said. “It’s either that, or war”. Nina let out a muffled whimper. “Well, that’s not happening”, T.O. said. “Nina is our family, and we’re not handing her over to be killed”. “And neither will we”, Bishop said. “She’s family to us too; and beyond any unwritten rule about not letting family get hurt, we don’t want her dead”. “So what are you suggesting?”, Tig asked. “Well, as you’ve probably figured out, we’ve got a snitch in our clubhouse”, Taza said. “We know it’s a woman, because Palo let it slip that she’s been in contact with him on the regular”. “We need to draw her out; get rid of her somehow”, Bishop said. “And what better way than give her to Palo, letting him think it’s Nina…?”. Nina’s eyes widened at his words. “We’ll bring Nina and the snitch to a location we’ll set up with the Vatos; show Nina to Palo; and then switch her for the snitch, last minute”. “What is this? Mission Impossible? You can’t just put a Nina’s face on a different woman…”, Tig said. “That’s your problem with this plan? You want to let another woman get killed because of me!”, Nina said. “No! I can’t spend the rest of my life looking for women to take my place in front of Palo’s gun, whenever he figures out, he killed the wrong person…! I’m done. No one else is getting hurt on my account”.

She stood up, and stormed out of the room. Filip followed her, waving at the others to wait in church. He closed the door to church, to give them some privacy. “Look, whoever this woman is, she was willing to let you get killed. For money or whatever; I don’t care”, he said. Nina went over to face the bar, and took a firm hold of the railing in front of it; as if it would keep her from exploding in rage. “I am not letting this happen. I swear on Jax’s grave, I will run back to the border on my bare fucking feet; and throw myself in front of Palo’s gun. I’m done! I can’t have another life on my conscience!”. “Nina Teller!”, Filip growled. He only ever used her full name when he meant business. “You owe your Jackson to live! He loved you and cared for you; had you take his name when he got guardianship of you, to get you out of that loveless place you called a home up until you were 16… You are his sister! If he were here, he would not let you throw away your life like this”. He put his hands on her shoulders, and forced her to look at him. “And I won’t let you either. I love you, kid! Like a sister… like a fucking daughter; and you know what that means…”. Tears were forming in his eyes, and Nina threw her arms around his waist, and buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m sorry… but I can’t let this happen. There has to be another way”, she said.

“You have to”. Nina pulled away from Filip, and saw that EZ had come out of church to join them. “If you don’t, Angel’s gonna get himself killed”. Nina shook her head confusedly. “What are you talking about?”, she asked. “Angel’s planning on crossing the border to kill Palo. He wants to keep you safe, and he thinks taking out Palo and VM will do that”, EZ said. “He won’t make it within 10 miles of Palo, before he’s dead!”, Nina exclaimed. “You’re right…”, EZ replied. “But he’s gonna do it anyway… He’s broken, Nina. Doesn’t give a fuck about himself or anything else anymore. You have to come back with us, and convince him that this plan is better than his own. He made me swear not to tell Bishop, but…”. “I’m not gonna let him hurt himself…!”, Nina exclaimed. “He’s already hurt”, EZ said. “But this is suicide”.

Nina went to sit down on a chair, feeling her knees beginning to give under her. “So… either I let someone die in my place, or Angel kills himself; is that what you’re saying?”. “It’s the only plan we have… And going through with it – keeping you alive like this – is the only way I know to keep my brother alive”, EZ said. He sat down across from her, and took her hands. “I’m begging you… For me; for our pap… Please…”. “What if he already…”, Nina began in a panicked voice. “He promised to wait until I came back. Pap is keeping an eye on him”, EZ said. “Does he know you’re here?”, Filip asked. “No. If he knew there was a chance, we’d bring Nina back, he’d shoot out the tires of all our bikes, and probably set them on fire”, EZ replied. “He thinks she’s in danger in San Pad”. He gave Filip a meaningful look. “She’s not. You’ve got my word… if that means anything coming from a prospect”.

Filip stepped over to the table, and EZ got up to face him. “What is this woman to you, prospect?”, he asked. “She’s my hermanita. My little sister… and I love her”, EZ replied. “Then your word matters, brother”, Filip said, and placed a firm hand on EZ’s shoulder. He looked at Nina. “You are getting on the back of this Mayan’s bike, and letting him take you back to Santo Padre”. “Filip, I’m…”, Nina began. “No discussions! When I saw you in San Pad, you were alive… happy, for the first time in forever. You’ve been a fucking wreck this last week; even worse than I’ve ever seen you before”, Filip said. He took her hands, and pulled her up to stand. “Relight that flame inside you, luv’. Fucking shine!”.

Her Angel was in pain, and he was going to get himself killed. Nina couldn’t let that happen; and now that she knew that Abel and Thomas were ok, she wasn’t ready to let the chance of any kind of future with him slip through her fingers. She knew that she wanted to find a way to avoid anymore death, but for now, Angel was her focus. “Tell them I’ll go”, she said. EZ sprang for the door to church, closing it behind him. She heard muttering from inside, before it opened again, and the Mayans all streamed out; the Sons at their heels. Coco came straight up to her, and pulled her in for a tight hug. “I fucking love you, ma’”, he said, and kissed her temple. Nina smiled at him, before she turned to face Bishop. “I’m sorry I left the way I did; but my reason was valid. I know you know that”, she said. “I’ll give you your year, and whatever time after that makes sense; and I’ll go ahead with your plan for now… As long as you admit that your plans have a tendency to suck!”. “Yeah, pimping out Angel was not my best move”, Bishop admitted with a smile. “We love you, kid. I love you. And I promise to do whatever I have to do to keep you safe…”. “Are you fishing for a hug?”, Nina smirked. “No, he doesn’t hu…”, EZ began. Bishop put his arms around Nina, and pulled her in for a tight embrace; taking every Mayan in the room by surprise. “Tiggy, call Lyla, and make them clear out of Nina’s place, before she comes by to get her things”, Filip said. Nina winced. “You know what? No… After what’s probably gone on there today, just burn that shit”, she said. The Sons all laughed.

Nina looked around at the faces of her Mayan family. “Let’s go home”.

---

[fallout-lou-begas]

Questions for OC Creators

Shamelessly stole this from @tarberrymentats​‘ post because I’m always a sucker for behind-the-scenes character inspiration and meaning stuff, so if you steal this in turn, feel free to tag me!

(I’m also stealing Halk’s usage of lovely art by @yesjejunus​ for this one 🖤)

Agnes Sands, Courier Six of the Mojave Express

A) Why are you excited about this character?

Agnes was an opportunity to create what felt like a very unorthodox OC, and it’s an opportunity that has certainly paid off. She’s not young, and she’s not a particularly pleasant or easygoing person to be around, but she’s also not the endearingly tragic loner type or a badass army-of-one. She’s not “spunky” or “fun” and isn’t the kind of Fallout character who’s necessarily motivated to do every quest, meet every companion, accomplish every thing. She’s not an important person; being an important person is anathema to her, and the looming, overarching themes of It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ are these ideas of the hard limits on unlikely heroism, and how you really can’t fly that far on circumstance and luck. I’m very excited for everyone to see how it goes when the going gets tough.

Furthermore, the design and writing process for Agnes was very informed by finding justifications, reasons, and origins for all of her personality traits, skills, and various hang-ups. The result is a character that feels, to me, so deeply real and well-rounded and alive, that Agnes is a person who has lived every one of her 34 years of age, and that in each of those years were key developments that molded her into the person she is. When I write her, I feel like I know her because of how intimately I’ve researched and come to understand the life she’s led. I don’t want to say it comes effortlessly, but there’s a very genuine, sculpted depth to her character that I’m proud of, and it forms the bedrock of It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’.

It is also very important to me that Agnes is a trans woman, and is a trans woman who looks the way she does with a strong jaw and a big nose and long face and a wide body and hairy arms and so many other “masculine” features, because I wanted to create a character with a very real, visceral, visible transness to them, and for this transness to be a meaningful part of her character that informs her relationship to other people and the scarce world of the Mojave Wasteland instead of just an auxiliary character trait. She is no less of a woman for existing the way she does, but I simply wasn’t interested in creating a character or interpreting the Mojave Wasteland in a way that wouldn’t meaningfully grapple with what it really feels like, to me, to be a trans woman.

B) What inspired you to create them?

Many of Agnes’ character traits actually come from mechanical and specialization decisions that I play in game. I often joke that Agnes “just plain sucks,” but it’s true that in my Fallout: New Vegas game, I have encumbrance set to a measly 25 lbs without backpacks (necessitating her shoulder-slung duffel bag), use a directional flashlight instead of the Pip-Boy light (necessitating the shoulder-mounted flashlight), play with dramatically decreased total S.P.E.C.I.A.L. and skill points per level (which is why she’s so bad-to-average at most things except key specialties), and so on. This was the most obvious level of inspiration, and much of Agnes’ personality and backstory is reverse-engineered to justify the aspects of her character suggested and represented by her mechanical stats.

C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story?

Epiphanies have come over time, but ultimately I more or less hammered out Agnes’ whole “story” upfront. I have a detailed character bible saved away that covers not only her entire life pre-courier, but the story beats of her experience as the courier thrown into the center of the events of Fallout: New Vegas and the seismic geopolitical power plays leading up to the second battle of Hoover Dam. So, uh, stay tuned for each new issue of IKROAH!

D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

I wouldn’t say that I’ve meant to meaningfully change her appearance over time, but as I’ve been working on the comic, I’ve simply gotten better at drawing and the result has been an Agnes that more consistently looks like how I want her to look. One deliberate change to her appearance has been that her hair is a lot fluffier and voluminous than it used to be, just because a few other peoples’ fanart of her would be like that and I really liked how it looked.

E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you?

Hard to say. Agnes has such a defensive, prickly, and particular personality and is so shy and anxious that she’s someone very hard to get along with in general, regardless of who you are. Cass could only ply her through a combination of drunken genuineness and total embarrassment that razor-cut right to her trauma. I don’t think I’d have the...audacious wherewithal to be that blunt with her if we’d just met. The best case scenario is that she imprints on me as a younger trans woman and feels compelled to look out for me because if there’s one soft spot she has, it’s that.

F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?

Pride at the amount of work I’ve put into developing her and crafting her story so far, pride at how it’s been such a rewarding and enjoyable vehicle for getting so much better at art and writing since this summer, and occasionally sadness just because, man, I really let her fucking have it sometimes, huh.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

Her solitary lifestyle made it necessary to find a way to write Cass into the story, just so that there would be some more dialogue while she traveled. She has a lot of interpersonal flaws, her habit of going from totally reclusive and private to hollering mad with no steps in between would certainly be off-putting to me especially. She gets a bad, sad, crying kind of angry, and she doesn’t get there quick but she goes get there suddenly.

H) What trait do you admire most?

She has a dedication to her and a commitment to what she’s good at. She understands the value of stability, good work and a good job. Sometimes this value is so much to her that it keeps her stagnant, and she’s very much a person who’s stuck in their ways in so many regards, but there’s a resilience to her that may not be obvious at first, but that she simply wouldn’t have gotten this far or survived without.

I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?

Agnes’ story is so tailored to the source material of Fallout: New Vegas that I thought that transplanting her into other AUs would be difficult, but it’s actually been pretty seamless inserting her into the a modern AU with a few friends called Courier House, where instead of being a courier, she kept up her medical training and works as an EMT. That also spun off into a modern zombie AU, which is just fun and tragic in a lot of juicy ways.

I also have a lot of thoughts on an AU in which she makes it to the Commonwealth, in which she’d become Nick’s partner at the eventually-renamed Valentine and Sands Detective Agency, helping to solve cases of burglary and theft, B&E, and advises on various security concerns. She’d also get extremely invested in tracking down missing children. There are a lot of parallels and dramatic development potential between Agnes Sands and Nick Valentine that I’d kill for more time to explore one day.

J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character?

I didn’t have to, no, but I chose to and at least filled in some holes. My theory on transitional health care in the wasteland is all my own (the Followers are the primary manufacturer and distributor of hormones, which can be inefficiently synthesized from Auto-Docs so they’re not impossible to find but are considerably rare) and I’ve taken some liberties in the IKROAH canon so far for convenience, such as Primm never getting taken over by convicts and the Cassidy Caravans buyout offer being a letter at the Mojave Express instead of something she’d have had to get personally from Alice McLafferty later on. Expect a lot more little twists like this in the future.

[sunlightdances]

Public Relations (Bucky x Reader Oneshot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Prompt: “I’m a woman with a brain and reasonable ability” Author’s Note: Written for @captain-kelli​’s 500 Fam Writing Challenge! Congrats, Kelli, and thank you for hosting! Takes place post-Endgame, but with some adjustments to canon (Tony and Nat are alive, Steve stayed). This has a lot more dialogue than I initially planned! Hope it’s not too choppy. My love of commas is also evident in this piece. *shrug emoji* Disclaimer: I don’t own Bucky, Marvel, or any other related characters or events. The other details of the plot are mine, including the characterization of the “reader”. Please don’t post my work on any other sites without my permission! If you liked what you read, please consider reblogging to help my work be seen. I would love you forever!

Let’s clear one thing up straight away: Bucky Barnes is not an asshole. He has a chip on his shoulder, sure, and it’s also true that he can be grumpy from time to time.

But can you blame him, really?

His life after age 26 has been one giant shit show that he’s just starting to get back on track, so he thinks the world at large could forgive him if he’s not super nice to the reporter hanging around outside the coffee shop or if his resting face sometimes looks like he wants to punch someone.

Still - he’s working on it. Trying to appear a little softer around the edges, trying to remember how to be the person he once was, not because he thinks it’s healthy to try to go back to that time, but because that’s the last time he actually remembers liking himself.

But, again, he’s not an asshole. Or, he tries really hard not to be. A fact he has to keep reminding his friends of (and he uses that word loosely, sometimes), especially when you’re around.

Everything just comes out of his mouth wrong when you’re there.

Probably because you’re around all the time, and you’re smart, and funny, and pretty, and-- nope. He’s not going there. Because reminding himself all the reasons why he likes you just makes him feel more guilty about the way he acts around you. He’s just too chickenshit to admit that he likes you, and ends up being a dick.

As soon as he walks into the Tower, you’re there.

After Thanos, the Avengers returned to New York City. There’s not much left of the Compound upstate to live in right now until the rebuild is done, and he’d been thinking about Brooklyn anyway. Manhattan is different, but he feels better in the city. He thinks the rest of the team likes it here too - it reminds them of the old days, or whatever.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you greet him coolly, matching his stride as he heads towards the elevator. “There’s a meeting in fifteen minutes in the main conference room.”

Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the tenth floor. “Do I have a choice to attend?”

“No you do not.”

“Great.”

He thinks you’re trying not to smile. He grinds his teeth.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY’s voice comes through the overhead speaker. “Captain Rogers requests that you, and I quote, don’t even think about it.”

You snort, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Punk,” he whispers. “Thanks, FRIDAY. Tell Captain Rogers I said, and I quote, to shove it--”

“Thanks, FRIDAY,” you interrupt, “Thank you so much.”

The few remaining minutes in the elevator are in silence, and you push your way out of the elevator before he can even take a step when it stops. Bucky follows you reluctantly to the conference room where some of the rest of the team is waiting.

Nat looks barely awake (she has trouble sleeping after literally coming back from the dead when Steve returned the stones, what a shocker), Sam is spinning in his chair, and Steve is patiently listening to Peter prattle on about some project he’s working on for biology.

“We’re just waiting on Tony, Bruce, and Scott,” you say, heading towards the head of the table. “Wanda is on a mission with Clint, and Thor is off world. No word from Carol in a few days, either.”

Steve waves you off. “Don’t worry about it. We can fill them in later.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Wait, this is your meeting?” He asks you. “What was the point of the AI-assisted lecture from you--” he pointedly glares at Steve.

“Because I knew you’d try to get out of it, so I asked for some help.” You smile sweetly at him.

The rest of the team files in over the next few minutes, and Bucky watches as you shuffle through a few papers before turning on the overhead projector. He has to admit, while he absolutely despises public relations, he has a lot of respect for what you do.

He knows it’s not easy wrangling Tony’s ambitions plus whatever manic situations the team get themselves in on a daily basis. Trying to do press for the Avengers is probably akin to wrangling cats, he supposes.

“So,” you clap your hands together, “the event at Children’s Hospital is in two weeks. Can we please, please avoid any earth-threatening situations that might take precedence over this? We missed it the last few years, obviously, so we need to get out there and make some kids happy.”

A murmured agreement goes throughout the room, and Bucky tips back in his chair, counting down the minutes until he can go literally anywhere else. It’s not you, really. It’s the idea of public appearances. He hates them. People still think of him based on who he was, not who he is now. Despite the fact that Steve and the rest of the team have publicly vouched for him and are working on clearing his name, he sees how people look at him.

You’re tied to that feeling, even though he knows that isn’t fair. He has a hard time separating you from your job.

“The next thing -- and I don’t want to hear about it --” You look around, eyes landing on him meaningfully, “-- there’s a magazine feature for the anniversary of the Battle of New York.”

“Well, that’s me off the hook,” Bucky says flippantly, grinning smugly at Sam, who high fives him.

“No, it absolutely doesn’t,” you argue.

“I wasn’t there, in case you forgot.”

You glare. “Thank you for the reminder.”

“Guys--” Steve tries to interrupt.

“You have to participate, because this article is about the team and how it’s grown since the inception of the Avengers.” You say, almost sounding bored. Probably because you and Bucky have this argument at least once a week.

“Bucky, it’s an hour.” Steve says gently, trying to barter.

“Whatever.” Bucky grumbles, “You know what they’re going to ask,” he says, suddenly angry. “Where was the elusive Winter Soldier during the Battle of New York? Do I remember it happening, or was I in the middle of being frozen or wiped for the thousandth time?”

You shift your weight, looking down at the floor. He feels guilty for a half second. “I won’t let them ask.”

His heart thuds weirdly in his chest at how earnest you sound, but he just can’t help himself, apparently. “Because you’re so sure they’re going to listen to you.”

Hurt flashes across your face so quickly he thinks he’s imagined it, but he knows he hasn’t. Again - he’s not usually an asshole. He still hates himself for it, though.

“Alright, we’re done here.” You say quietly, gathering your paperwork. “I’ll email you all the details.”

Sam elbows him, and across the table, Steve is giving Bucky a look that he’s come to associate with a lecture.

He sighs and rolls his eyes before getting up and heading out of the room, his friends at his heels.

“Wow, a five minute meeting,” Sam is saying, sarcastically. “Gotta be a new record, don’t you think, Rogers?”

Bucky’s new plan is to ignore Sam at all costs. It’s not a plan he thinks is going to work out in his favor, but it’s what he’s sticking with.

“You can’t ignore me forever.”

“Are you a mind reader?” Bucky asks, hitting the button in the elevator for the residential floors.

“It’s two events, Buck.” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can handle it.”

“Yeah? Why don’t I let you field the questions I normally get, and we’ll see how you like it.”

“I’m not doubting you. I just don’t understand why you always have to take it out on her.” Steve’s voice is so disappointed, Bucky almost wants to laugh. When his best friend turned into such a mother hen, he’ll never know.

“Don’t be late!” Sam calls as Bucky gets off on his floor, leaving the other men in the elevator.

Flipping him off over his shoulder, he hears Sam’s chuckle and Steve’s sigh before the doors close, and finally he’s alone with his thoughts.

.

.

.

Turns out the interview happens before the hospital visit.

Bucky is in an uncomfortable chair, a reporter across from him, and you behind the reporter, fidgeting slightly. He feels almost relieved that you seem to be as nervous as he is.

“Mr. Barnes,” the reporter begins, a smile Bucky already hates on his face.

“It’s Sergeant.” You say quietly from behind him, and Bucky meets your eyes briefly, seeing the resolve there.

“Of course.” The reporter says smoothly, offering another smile to Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes, you weren’t in New York for the Chitauri invasion, were you.”

“No.”

If the reporter thought he’d elaborate, he doesn’t let on. Bucky saw these questions coming a mile away, and isn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of saying something he’ll regret. Well, he won’t regret it. But it’ll be a pain in the ass for everyone if he can’t keep his cool.

“This was the first official Avengers event. Do you remember hearing about it?”

Bucky wants to laugh. “Do I remember-- no. I don’t think I was awake for much of 2012.” You fidget again, shifting your weight, and Bucky sighs, grinding his teeth. “I’ve been fully briefed on the invasion and know that what the Avengers did that day saved the world.”

The reporter looks at him for a long moment before shifting the papers on his lap around a bit. “The Avengers have changed a lot in all those years since that first mission. Can you tell me a bit more about your role with the team?”

Bucky relaxes a bit. This is the part he prepped for, the part he could recite in his sleep if he had to. Whatever instinct he had back in the day that allowed him to lead a unit and report to his CO is still there, especially for questions like this. “I work mainly with Captain Rogers and Sam Wilson to coordinate missions and do strategic planning. Recon and research are my main areas of focus, but I go on missions too if needed as backup, or if it’s an all hands on deck situation.”

“So you’re not handling any weapons?”

Bucky blinks. Over the reporter’s shoulder, you frown.

“All Avengers team members undergo weapons training.”

“During the War, you were a sniper with the 107th, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So you’d say that you’re pretty proficient with a gun?”

Your eyes are flashing now. “I’m sorry - none of this was on the list of pre-approved questions.” You interrupt, and the reporter holds up a hand to stop you, causing you to make an affronted face.

Bucky would laugh if he wasn’t feeling so sick at this turn of questioning. Every time. No matter who they vet, no matter how many times reporters insist they aren’t trying to catch him in a question he can’t or doesn’t want to answer… this is why he hates interviews.

“I’m just saying -- you’re one of the world’s most accomplished assassins. I guess I wanted to know why you’re doing research and recon when you could be on the front lines with the team? Are they worried you’ll have a setback?”

Bucky barks out a laugh.

You start, taking a few steps forward. “That’s enough. We’re done here.”

Bucky’s already standing, pulling out the chair from behind him as you come around to follow him out, until the reporter stops you, a hand firm on your elbow. You freeze, and Bucky’s eyes narrow on the point of contact, an unfamiliar feeling surging through him.

“Do you know who I work for?” The reporter hisses. “You told me I’d have a half hour.”

“That was before I knew you were going to ask questions that have nothing to do with your article.” You reply, face darkening when he still hasn’t let go.

Bucky waits, waits for one more sign that you’re uncomfortable before he steps in.

“If you ever want to get another high profile piece done on your team you’ll let me finish here.” He threatens, hand tightening.

You sigh, almost looking bored, and in one swift move, you’ve shifted enough of your weight to turn, pulled the elbow he was holding out of his grasp, and driven it into his ribs, simultaneously kneeing him in the groin.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise, and you look at him, rolling your eyes. “What?”

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he says, letting a smile slip out so you know he’s kidding.

The reporter is doubled over, still making threats, but neither of you pay him much attention as you walk out the double doors of the conference room in the unfamiliar magazine office, heading towards the lobby.

In the car that’s waiting for you outside, Bucky watches you carefully as you roll your shoulders a bit, clearly smarting from the move you pulled back there.

“If I would have known you could do that, I would have been a little nicer,” he teases, but there’s an undercurrent of truth to his words. Not that he thought he’d ever piss you off enough for you to hurt him, but that he wishes he was nicer to you in general.

You glance at him, face neutral. “It wasn’t that hard. Everyone who works for the Avengers goes through basic self defense training, and I’m a woman with a brain and reasonable ability.”

Bucky nods. “Still. Thank you, by the way, for putting an end to that.”

You sigh, sitting back in your seat, all the fight leaving you. “It’s nothing.” You dig your phone out of your pocket and he watches as your thumbs fly across the screen before you hold it to your ear. “Hi, Steve.” A pause, “No, that’s cancelled. You’re not doing it. Tell Tony I’m cancelling the rest of the interviews. We’ll find some other place to get it published.”

He knows he’s staring and he knows he should stop before you notice, but he just… can’t take his eyes off you. The way you stood up for him, the way you promised him you would even when he was being a total asshole… he has no idea what he did to deserve it, but he’s damn grateful.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, your tone softer than he’s ever heard it.”

He shakes his head, looking down at his feet. “No reason. Just-- sorry I’m such a dick sometimes.”

You laugh, and he immediately wants to hear it again.

“I mean it,” he continues, “I don’t mean to be. You don’t deserve it.”

“Bucky.” Your voice is even softer, quiet, and he struggles to think if you’ve ever called him by his name before. You wait until he meets your eyes. “It’s fine. We’re all-- just trying to get through this.” You shrug. “I know it’s not easy for you. Just… Trust me sometimes, will you?”

“I do trust you.” He replies immediately, absolutely sure of himself for once.

It’s your turn to be a little surprised.

He rubs his hands together, a nervous tick he’s never gotten rid of. “I’ve been trying to distance myself because I like you. And that honestly scares the shit out of me. I don’t know--” He stops, frustrated. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. And all I keep thinking about is what could go wrong.” He takes a chance and glances up at you, and the look in your eyes… it’s more than he expected. He feels his heart take off in his chest.

“We’re both so stupid, Bucky.” You tell him, but your words are light. “You should have said something.”

He rolls his eyes. “People always say that. But when has a conversation like this one ever been one that someone wants to have?”

“Maybe when the other person feels the same way?”

Bucky can’t breathe. He never even considered it. It was always a forgone conclusion in his mind. He thinks you’re beautiful, and you never think about him at all. That was always the truth that he thought he knew. “Go out with me.” He blurts, and then feels his face redden. “I mean-- let me-- will you let me take you to dinner?”

The car stops in front of the tower and you’re opening the door before you say anything, making him panic a little. A look over your shoulder, “I’ll see if I can pencil you in somewhere.” You say, and then with a wink, you’re gone, leaving him scrambling to get out of the car to catch up to you.

Before you can, Steve is there, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Not now--”

“Can’t help it. She called a meeting.”

Bucky stops in his tracks, and laughs. “Did she.”

“She must know how much you love them. Come on.”

Upstairs he finds his usual seat next to Sam and across from Steve, but when you gather your notes and meet his eyes, yours absolutely sparkling, he finds he’s not dreading this one at all. He still wants to take you to dinner though, so he might have to try to break his own record.

A 5 minute meeting so he can convince you to go on a date with him? He thinks he can swing it.

End

[galleryfake]

BIG OL’ KORTOPI INFO & HEADCANON DUMP ! ;

( aka the cliffnotes version of all the headcanon legwork i’ve done for this chara in the span of roleplaying him for five years )

❄❄❄

BACKSTORY / PRE-CANON : 

Kortopi originates from Meteor City, like the original members. The residents discovered him as a very small, clearly premature and sickly infant amidst the piles of garbage they regularly sifted through, not at all an uncommon occurrence, and took him immediately to the caretakers to try and save his life.

While he was able to be saved, it would be years before he would ever reach a “stable” level of health -- he was incredibly sickly and required nearly constant care all throughout his childhood, resulting in his care shifting hands a multitude of times due to the immense time and resources sink that it required. Because of this, Kortopi learned at a very young age to not grow attached to anyone, and that certain people - such as himself - were viewed as disposable by everyone. By the time his health had stabilized in his early teens, he had grown fed up with such suffocating conditions of being under constant care by people who - he thought - didn’t actually care about his life, and would simply pass him over again, and ran away to the fringes of the city to fend for himself. 

His life, from that point on, had become purely survival-based, even as his developing brain sought to accrue more knowledge about the world and the people in it. He hid in the shadows, using his small size & adjacent speed and dexterity to rob people blind before they had even realized what was happening, and using his remaining time to people-watch from an assortment of hiding spots, learning about the nature of human interaction, pursuing subjects that interested, and even learning about Nen this way.

Once he had adequately self-trained in Nen and developed his Divine Left Hand, Demonic Right Hand technique accordingly, this newfound ability caused an upset in Meteor City that eventually even reached the elders. Suddenly, people’s possessions were disappearing left and right, as if from thin air, and nobody knew why -- completely unaware that it was Kortopi’s doing, or even that the young boy existed.

Enter the Phantom Troupe. Skilled Nen users themselves, they managed to set up a trap to catch the culprit in the act of using this strange ability, and Kortopi took the bait. While the legs discussed amongst themselves on the matter of killing him or just leaving him be, Chrollo noted that Kortopi was appearing to keep the original objects he stole, and saw in him a thief, just like them, and decided to try and recruit him.

Kortopi was then cornered by the various legs of the Spider, and then approached by the Head. Though he was distrustful at first, Kortopi sensed a level of genuine compassion from Chrollo that he had never seen before in anyone, finding himself trusting in the words he spoke without question, surprising himself. Lulled in by this newfound sense of security and potential ‘belonging’, Kortopi accepted Chrollo’s offer, becoming leg #12 of the Spider.

❄❄❄

GENERAL INFO / PERSONALITY :

Kortopi doesn’t know his last name ( or at least, what it would’ve been had he ever reunited with his parents ) or how old he is. As of the events of the Yorknew Arc, he is 19, and when asked, he usually defaults to saying ‘same age as Shizuku’, since he’s aware that their timeline of entering child & adulthood seem to match up almost identically. He’s actually older than her by several months, a fact he’d find amusing if he were to ever find out his exact date of birth. 

Due to the troubled nature of his upbringing and the kindness that Chrollo showed him in allowing him into the group, he is fiercely protective of Chrollo and everyone within the Spider, and values their individual lives over the preservation of the group as a whole. This puts him directly in opposition of the group’s main principles and, as a result, of some of the founding members’ beliefs, as can be seen when he sides with Machi and is prepared to fight against Feitan and Phinks during the Chain User hostage dilemma. 

The Troupe is the first group of people he’s ever cared for and desires validation and acceptance from, and as a result, he often finds himself at a crossroads -- wanting to be by their sides at all times, yet too shy and afraid of making them upset to ever meaningfully reach out to them himself. Often times, he harbors his affection for them quietly, choosing to watch their group activities from a high perch or sit nearby, observing them. He never outright asks to be included, but very much enjoys when he is, and loves both giving and receiving physical affection.

Outside of the Troupe, Kortopi has a very nihilistic view of people and life as a whole. As was demonstrated to him when he was young and seemingly chronically ill, he believes that people will always seek to cast out the ‘other’ or anyone who causes too much trouble, and therefore feels justified in taking the lives of normal people, knowing they’ll eventually try and do the same to him. People outside of the Troupe are meaningless to him, and he will generally take their acts of kindness towards him as superficial no matter how good their intentions. 

Kortopi, like most members of the Troupe and most akin to Chrollo, does not fear death whatsoever. Having been on the edge of death countless times from both illness and the harshness of lone survival, he has an acute awareness that his time is limited, especially in the context of the Spider’s rule of new members being inducted by the killing of a current member. Because of this, he has no qualms doing things that may end in his death, or taking risks that may seem unwise. The future doesn’t exist to him - there is only the ‘now’.

His Spider tattoo is located between his shoulderblades, obscured by his long hair. He keeps his hair long both to obscure his tattoo and his face, keeping his identity hidden through both of these avenues. However, he’s not particularly self-conscious about his face ( as people often assume ) and he will often keep his hair behind his ears while he’s alone, eating, or around the Troupe in a private location. The appearance of his face isn’t a secret amongst anyone who knows him -- it’s rather average-looking, only made minorly off-putting by how large his eyes are, but otherwise nothing special. 

❄❄❄

INTER-TROUPE RELATIONSHIPS :

Chrollo is the first true figure of authority that Kortopi’s ever had in his life, and he regards him with immense respect and devotion, unable to be swayed from this by anything. He feels honored to be a part of his plans, and is always eager to show off his abilities and prowess to the leader, hoping to be praised. 10/10, would love headpats from Danchou at all times. 

Shizuku, Bonolenov and Shalnark are who he would consider his closest friends within the Troupe. These are the three he is most consistently able to overcome his shyness towards, and he can often be seen by their sides, a friendly presence that is always willing to listen to them and assist them in any way he can.

Machi and Pakunoda are both very calming presences to Kortopi, and he’ll often sit watching them read, sew or do other mundane activities, basking in their innate kindness and acceptance of him.

He desires to grow closer to Feitan, who he sees as someone similar to himself, but concedes to respectfully give him the space that he needs. He takes particular interest in observing his actions and attempting to analyze him past his cold and emotionless demeanor, and will jump at the chance to accompany him places or spend time with him in any capacity, hoping to see him open up with any luck and patient persistence.

Phinks, Nobunaga, Uvogin, and Franklin are all members with prickly outer demeanors and hair-trigger tempers, he’s found, but he’s witnessed them all to show care and affection to those they care about, and he finds them interesting to watch, often making a fun activity out of trying to predict their actions amongst Shal, Bono and Fei. He also feels gratitude whenever they show kindness to him, often reciprocating the gesture himself and taking amusement from their embarrassed reactions. 

Hisoka and Omokage give him a strong sense of unpredictability, contrasting with the rest of the Troupe’s firm resolves. He trusts them, as an extension of his trust in Chrollo, but finds their actions and demeanors mysterious, often interrogating them with curious questions to quell his own interest. 

Kalluto also gives him a sense that he may have hidden intentions, but this feeling is passed over in favor of feeling sympathetic to the young Zoldyck’s plight, as the only child in a group of highly skilled adults. Kortopi often tries to give him tips for navigating the Troupe, acting as a friendly big brother-type. 

❄❄❄

SKILLS AND ABILITIES ;

GENERAL COMBAT & TACTICAL SKILLS: [ found here ! ]

NEN ABILITIES: [ found here ! ]

❄❄❄

MISC. INFO :

He enjoys intellectual board games and is quite good at them, only being bested within the Troupe a small handful of times, usually by Chrollo. He is humble about this, and has no problem with stopping to explain any rules or mechanisms about the game should his opponent need such a thing.

In terms of sexuality, Kortopi is gay, but very, VERY demi and equally as shy. Even if he catches feelings, it takes a small eternity for him to be brave enough to distinguish them as such, and another one to actually act on them. Also, his chances of catching feelings outside the Troupe are pretty close to zero. Like, probably about %0.0001. Don’t count on him looking your way at all if you’re an outsider. 

His vocal chords are damaged, resulting in a deep, scratchy voice that tends to give people a fright when they first hear it. As a result, he can’t raise his voice very much, and avoids doing so unless absolutely necessary. It doesn’t hurt, but it results in a small fit of dry coughing that he finds unpleasant. 

The skin of his hands and feet are permanently colored a more pink-purple hue due to poor blood circulation throughout his entire body -- the rest of his skin is otherwise normal.

[abluescarfonwaston]

IMO I don't think Yen ever gets better 😬 I dunno if she's the kind of lady who would ever be able to stop chucking jam jars if you know what I mean. I can't tell if it's just shitty writing or bad interpretation on my part, but I really want to claw Yen's eyes out sometimes. Her calling Ciri ugly, even as a ""nickname""was just...... awful. Yen screams at Geralt and he just takes it. But also they seem don't talk about their problems or discuss fidelity expectations and it's kinda uncomfy idk

[part 2]Not that Yen is a bad character by any means!!! I should say. I kinda think that the relationship she and Geralt have is incredibly unhealthy at times, and I never really felt like book!Yen grew into a mother role for Ciri. Maybe as a mentor, but not a parent? Emotionally she's kind of a wreck at all times. I know these are spicy opinions and I should probably read the books through again, but that was my takeaway from my first read-through. Haven't played the games so can't really speak to that

[part 3] Another caveat: i LOVE the fandom interpretation of Yen. Just don't really care for her in canon

Hmmmm. There is definitely issues with how she is written in the story. I mean. This was pretty clearly written by a straight man in the 70′s. Well. I wouldn’t put it that far back but. Progressive for the time. Rough for today.

She does have issues with control and power and anger. They all have shitty coping mechanisms. Geralt, Yennfer, Dandelion. All of them. So I do genuinely worry for Geralt’s safety in that relationship. At least with the versions of her that would throw things. Or hurt him with magic.

Yeah for how ‘communicative’ this Geralt is. Theirs not actually a lot of communication that seems to happen. I can see why every other version of the story just. Had him talk less. When you can See him you need less words to be able to tell the audience what’s happening.

I haven’t seen her call Ciri ugly yet. I’d assumed that it was like a reversal of Daisy saying ‘I hope she grows up pretty and stupid. That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world.’ And Yennefer - as someone who grew up ‘ugly’ is saying the opposite. I hope you grow up ugly and smart. But i can definitely see why it could easily be upsetting or miss it’s mark.

I really hope she does grow into the mother role for Ciri. I need her to. It is so important to me for her character. Game Ciri seems to think of her as mother. If I have to I will be satisfied with that.

And just to be fair- they are all emotional wrecks at all times.

So far Book! Yennefer I feel bad for but don’t want her in a relationship with Geralt. Hexer! Yennefer I feel Very bad for because honestly from the tiiiiny bit we see of her screams someone in a great deal of pain. And she’s the closest thing we see in that show to Geralt eagerly participating in a sexual/romantic relationship. Still don’t want them in a relationship. Cause I trust that Jaskier with Geralt’s emotional wellbeing and he doesn’t want them to be together. Game! Yennefer is Badass lady that Geralt CLEARLY adores. but i honestly haven’t seen enough to know if she’s changed meaningfully from the books. I hope so. I want them to be happy. And whatever Triss did in the first game was clearly unforgivable for a lot of people so. Better option? Still wish I could have let him romance Regis instead. They seem like a fitting pair of old men.

Netflix Yennefer Has a Lot of potential for me. She’s clearly been thought out by a team of writers that include actual women. And their discussion to not include Jaskier’s more... repulsive aspects gives me hope that their relationship might grow into something I can enjoy. 

Someone said that the Netflix Geralt/Yennefer relationship isn’t a standard romance. It’s a Kink romance. And Netflix Geralt seems to be into it. (He’s clearly got some Game Geralt influences. That is a man who would enjoy the unicorn i think) So. Depending on how things go in season two I could ship them. It’s just. So much of their relationship appears to be based on their Physical attraction to each other and as an Ace I don’t get that at all.

I remain hopeful. And if not. I will continue to enjoy Fanon Yennefer in all her glory.

[calenheniel]

Helsa Week 2020, Day 7: Free

Seeing

Frozen | Oneshot | Hans, Elsa | Drama | K+

She often found herself drawn to her father’s coronation portrait in the library, waiting for the day he might look back at her, and see her, for the woman she had become. 

FF.Net | AO3 | Wattpad | deviantArt

Author’s Note: Based on a prompt from long ago: “Why did you do it?” Takes place shortly after the end of Frozen, but hints at some of Elsa’s internal conflict leading up to Frozen 2 (though I will never consider that film to be canon, and you can’t make me!). I can never get enough of their (imagined) conversations. It ended up being happier (?) than I expected.

@helsa-week​

»»————-　❈　————-««

“Your Majesty.”

She didn’t look up from her mountain of papers, scanning the page in her hand with intense concentration.

A cough echoed in the room. “Your Majesty.”

She glanced up for a moment, her pen never ceasing in its scrawl along the signature line. “Yes, Kai? I heard you the first time.”

The older man frowned, pulling back his shoulders. “I was asked to inform you that Prince Hans of the Southern Isles will be sent back home today.”

She paused. “Hans.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Kai confirmed. “If you may recall, the trip was delayed a week due to—”

“Repairs on the ship that needed to be done after I…” she finished, and then trailed off. She grimaced. “Yes, I remember.”

She greeted his gaze, and noticed behind him the ever-present coronation portrait of her father.

“Remind me, Kai: when was that portrait painted?” she asked suddenly.

The older man blinked, then turned around to face the object in question. “Ah, well, let’s see… it was probably about a week after he was crowned.”

She tapped her pen against the paper below. “He must have been nervous, becoming king at such a young age.”

“Younger even than you are now,” Kai noted, looking back at her with a small smile. “He would’ve been proud, seeing how far you’ve come.”

She returned a half-hearted smile, and touched the crown atop her head with some self-consciousness. “Sometimes, I forget what he looked like,” she admitted, looking sheepish at Kai’s confusion. “I mean, I know his portrait is right there, but…”

“It’s not him,” Kai finished for her. “I know, Your Majesty. But I believe he is still here, in spirit, watching over you as always.”

Her teeth grit at the words of reassurance. “I want to believe that, but…” she managed, unable to stifle a frown. She stared at the painting again – at the hands grasping the orb and scepter with such seeming steadiness, at the posture upright and proper, at the eyes frozen in place for eternity, looking past her into an unknowable void – and suppressed a shudder, dropping the pen to the page. “I don’t think he can do that anymore.”

The silence that followed her remark lay like a heavy snowfall in the room until she cleared her throat.

“When is Hans’s ship due to sail?” she asked.

“In a few hours, around 3 o’clock,” Kai answered after a moment, taken off-guard by the question. “Is something the matter, Your Majesty?”

She took a deep breath, tracing the outline of her pen. “I’d like to see him before he leaves. Can you bring him here?”

Kai’s brow lifted. “Your Majesty, that’s—I really don’t think that’s advisable, given how dangerous he is—”

“I’m well aware of that, but you know I’m more than capable of defending myself.” she cut him off, conjuring a snowflake for effect. Seeing his concern, however, she sighed, evaporating the magic. “Obviously, he should still be restrained in some way when he is brought here. And the guards should be posted just outside the room.”

Kai frowned. “It’s not his physical strength that worries me, Queen Elsa. It’s… his way with words,” he explained. “He fooled us all, not just the Princess.”

Her eyes tightened. “I know, Kai. But it won’t be like that this time. I promise.”

His lips pursed. “I hope so, Your Majesty. But what about the Princess? If she finds out he’s here—”

“She won’t,” she said, “because no one is going to tell her.”

They stared at one another, and at length, Kai swallowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty. I will bring him here within the next hour.” He bowed and left the room, his hands clenched behind his back.

She watched those hands until they were out of sight, and then looked down at her own.

They were shaking.

»» —— ««

She paced the floor of her father’s library – her library, now – and tried to steady her breathing.

Ice tendrils had been creeping from her fingers every so often in the last hour as she waited for him, snowfalls starting and stopping around her, her breath coming out in cold puffs. Kai’s words of warning hung in the air like a storm cloud, obscuring her vision, and her crown felt heavier than before.

She clasped her hands behind her in the same way that he had done, hoping that it would calm her. Instead, feeling her skin bare, without gloves – a sensation that was still so new and foreign – unnerved her further, and eventually her hands found their way back to her sides.

A heavy knock on the door jolted her to attention, and she finally stopped, though her heart continued to race. She licked her lips on instinct before speaking, finding her mouth suddenly dry.

“Come in.”

As the thick oak doors opened, she felt and heard every thump in her chest with alarming clarity, though she took care to look unaffected as she caught sight of the prince.

She allowed herself one last, deeper exhale. “Close the doors, please,” she instructed the guards. All four of them – the two who had brought in the prince, and the two stationed outside her door – blinked at her in surprise.

“But, Your Majesty—”

“I’ll be fine, Leif,” she interrupted the oldest guard. “Now please, if you will—return to your posts, and close the doors.”

Leif frowned in disapproval, shooting the prince a threatening look, but did as was commanded of him, maintaining eye contact with his queen until the doors were finally shut.

Her attention turned back to her guest, and the thump returned louder than ever.

“Your Majesty.”

Her stomach turned.

“Hans.”

»» —— ««

“I hope you’ll excuse my poor appearance,” he said, his bare and shackled hands gesturing at his dirtied uniform. “I didn’t have the chance to clean up before this, so I look more or less like I did the last time we met.”

She ignored the jab. “I was told you’re leaving today, on the French ambassador’s ship.”

He rolled his shoulders back, standing upright. “So I was told as well. Though I wasn’t expecting to see you again before I left.” He eyed her hands with wary interest, and then met her hard stare. “May I ask why I have the pleasure of being called upon by Her Majesty for a… private audience?”

She frowned and crossed her arms, and then looked away, gazing out the window at the mountains in the distance. She listened carefully to the jangling of his cuffs, assuring herself that he had not stepped any closer, and breathed.

“Why did you save me?”

She heard the surprise in his voice. “Why did I—I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

She glanced at him, and then towards the window, directing his gaze there. “Up on the North Mountain. You brought me back here, alive,” she repeated, “and I want to know why.”

“I told you in that cell that I needed you to stop the winter,” he replied, his brow furrowing. “You were the only one who could.”

She frowned. “Don’t lie, Hans. There’s no need for it anymore.”

He matched her expression. “I don’t know what it is that you want, or expect, me to say.”

Ice crept up her crossed arms from her fingertips until she noticed him staring at it—at which she reddened, disappearing it again. “You could’ve let me kill Weselton’s men, and then killed me, married Anna, ruled Arendelle like you planned to,” she explained. “Or you could’ve just killed all of us, and blamed it on me. Everyone would’ve believed you either way, after seeing what I did at the coronation ball.”

She looked up at her father’s portrait briefly, behind and a ways away from Hans, and felt filled with dread. She pushed past it, asking again: “But you didn’t. You brought me back here, to that cell. Why?”

His gaze narrowed at her. “Because I’m not an idiot like Weselton,” he retorted. “And I’ve spent enough time in libraries reading up on old folklore to know that killing you wouldn’t necessarily have done anything about the eternal winter.” He eyed her meaningfully. “And, as it turns out, I was right. Magic could only be undone with magic,” he said, adding with distaste: “That is, if you consider love to be magic.”

She glowered at him, and then took a few steps closer, stopping just within two feet of him. He regarded the move with suspicion, but did not budge. “Something tells me you’re not satisfied with my answer,” he remarked.

“Because there’s still something missing from it. Because…” Her face flushed suddenly, and she placed a hand over it to calm herself. “You saw what a danger I was to myself, to others. But you still thought you could… what, control it? Convince me to ‘come back to the light’?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Someone like you should’ve known better, should’ve—”

“Killed you?” he interrupted, earning a dark look from her. “Is that what you wanted?” At her silence, he sighed. “No. I didn’t think so.” His brow rose. “I didn’t see someone who wanted to die, on that mountain. You were fighting for your survival—desperately so.” He added: “I respected that.”

Her cheeks pinked, and she looked away from him. “You don’t respect anything,” she muttered, “especially not me.”

A strange light came into his eyes.

“Is that what this is about, Elsa?”

The informal address, coupled with his predatory look, made her skin crawl and the air grew colder. “What are you talking about?”

He suppressed a half-smile. “I understand, it’s a… difficult question to ask,” he replied, “especially to someone like me.”

She frowned. “Stop being cryptic. It’s not in the least bit interesting.”

He continued to eye her with discomfiting attention. “Then be honest. Ask me what’s really been on your mind, all this time.”

Ice traced the outlines of his cuffs and stung at his already raw and red wrists, making him wince. She scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hans,” she repeated through gritted teeth, “so if you’d like to keep your hands, you’d better come right out and say what you mean.”

She watched as he struggled to answer, frostbite creeping into his skin, his breath coming out in shorter bursts.

Don’t be the monster they fear you are.

Her eyes widened as she stepped back, and she clutched her hands to her chest, the ice retreating from his binds with them. He gasped and shuddered as it did, rubbing his hands together for warmth, glancing at her all the while.

She turned away, unable to face him. “I—I didn’t mean to do that,” she stuttered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do.”

»» —— ««

The room came back into focus.

“You do,” she repeated in disbelief.

“Yes,” he replied, “because I understand the instinct to lash out when you’re feeling trapped. I’m the same way.”

“Don’t compare yourself to me,” she snapped, her temper alighting anew. “Don’t pretend you understand, or know, anything about me. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me, to catch me off-guard so that you can harm me in some way, like you did to Anna.” She took two steps closer to him, her hands clenching into fists. “But I’m not her.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, staring down at her with unabashed fascination. “In many ways, you’re hardly alike at all. And isn’t that why you brought me in today?” There was an unsettling sort of understanding in his look. “To prove that you’re different; to prove that I chose wrong.”

Her skin boiled under his gaze. “That isn’t true,” she seethed, feeling an odd heat spread throughout her body until she was nearly shaking from it. “I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“Of course not,” he nodded, “but…” He paused to raise an eyebrow. “It seems to me there’s still a part of you that wants to know.”

Her lips were dry again.

“Know what?”

He took one step forward, leaving only a foot of space between them.

“Why I chose the Princess, and not the Queen.”

»» —— ««

She couldn’t hide the color of her face from him—not when he was that close.

“Anna already told me why,” she said, frowning. “I was ‘preferable,’ but ‘nobody was getting anywhere’ with me—those were your exact words, I believe.”

“She – and you – have a good memory,” he returned, making her frown deepen. “Yes, I did say that. But that explanation wasn’t good enough for you, was it, Elsa?” He craned his head forward a little, his expression dark and knowing. “You thought – no, you knew – that there must be another reason. A better reason.”

Her skin was crawling again, but in a way that felt unfamiliar.

She almost choked on her words. “And what, exactly, would that be?”

He smiled. “Do you want the real answer, or the answer that you want to hear?”

“There’s no difference,” she rejoined, her voice cracking. “I only ever want the truth.”

“Oh, Elsa,” he countered with a sigh, his head falling back, “I really must beg to differ.” When he peered down at her again, there was something akin to pity in his eyes. “What you want, I think, is for me to admit that I was wrong: that I should’ve gone after you, tried to woo you and become King of Arendelle through you, and not Anna.” He paused to take in her enraged, fearsome blue irises. “You want me to tell you that I was a fool.”

Her teeth ground so hard together that her jaw hurt, and she found her mouth too dry to form a response. He studied her appearance closely, and continued: “Well, Elsa, if that’s what you want, then yes: I admit that I was impatient, and was looking for the easiest way in—which, unfortunately for your sister, happened to be her.” At her warning look, he added: “Which was, of course, terrible of me to do. Especially when her older sister happened to be a much better match.”

The crawling sensation reached her stomach, and she nearly gasped at the sensation.

“You disgust me,” she spat.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s perfectly reasonable, given what I’ve done to you and yours. In fact, I’m being shipped back to certain punishment at home for it.” His eyes tightened. “But that doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about it. That you’re not thinking about it, still.”

He smiled at the appalled shock that spread across her features at the comment. “And that’s the real answer, Elsa: that I’ve thought about it, too. More than you can imagine.”

The heat in her stomach was unbearable, but she couldn’t break eye contact with him. “I’m sure you have,” she said, though with less repulsed conviction than she’d wanted to convey. “You’ve had an extra week to think things over, after all.”

“I’ve thought about it for longer than that,” he replied, causing her cheeks to flush anew. “I was just distracted, before, by my poorly-plotted ambitions.” At her eye-roll, he continued: “On that mountain, when I saw what your powers could do… it moved me, Elsa. Like nothing else had in a long, long time. And if I’d been smarter then, if I’d been thinking properly, I—”

He paused for effect, and she couldn’t help but take the bait.

“You’d have done what, Hans? Tried to ‘get somewhere’ with me, while I was weak and vulnerable and out of my right mind? Use my powers to your own ends?” She scoffed. “Yes, I suppose that would’ve been like you to do. But you didn’t. And even if you had,” she went on, “do you really think that I would have fallen at your feet, just like that? Especially after that… inane display you put on with Anna at the ball.” She glared at him. “I knew you were just a stupid pretty boy chasing the crown, and I wasn’t proven wrong.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “So that did bother you,” he remarked. “I thought you might’ve been a little jealous at the time, but I wasn’t sure ‘til now.” He chuckled a little. “I can’t say anything for certain about what might’ve happened, had I acted differently,” he admitted, “but… neither can you.”

She wanted to deny the claim outright, but her mouth was drier than ever.

»» —— «« 

The silence in the room was suffocating.

“That’s not true,” she said finally, her lip trembling as she met his stare again. “I know I wouldn’t have. I know it.”

“You don’t sound too convinced, Elsa.”

Her eyes crackled. “What does it matter? You made your choices already, what’s done is done—and now we’re here.”

“Indeed we are,” he concurred, peering at her. “But is this where you want to be?”

“I am where I belong,” she snapped, “and soon you will be, too.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s so,” he said, his lip curling at the reminder. “But that won’t stop me from thinking about it. And I don’t think it’ll stop you, either.”

Her head tilted up until she was sure that he could see her contempt. “I told you, Hans: don’t pretend like you know me, or my thoughts. You don’t know a damn thing.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re right: I don’t know you,” he echoed her, “and I can’t know what’s in your mind.” His olive eyes gleamed under the afternoon sun that streamed in through the windows. “But I see you, Elsa.”

Her blood pulsed under her skin, and tears pricked at her eyes. “I don’t believe that,” she murmured, shaking her head. Her gaze traveled up, and stopped.

He glanced at the crown atop her head. “Is it so hard to believe that someone could see you as you really are?” He followed her eyes to where they rested on the portrait of the old king, and sighed. “Oh, Elsa. You know he probably never did.”

Her jaw was tight as she blinked back her tears. “I know,” she replied, turning to him. “I can’t rely on his pity anymore, and I certainly don’t want yours.” 

He looked surprised by her hardened expression, and she continued: “I know the stories you told Anna about your brothers, and of how cruel they were to you. If they’re true, I can only imagine how lonely you must have been growing up.” Her stare was probing. “And that’s why you think you understand me: because you think we’re not so different.”

He frowned at the remark. “Elsa, I…”

She drew closer to him again, and glared at his downturned lips. “Perhaps we aren’t, Hans. And that’s the real reason, isn’t it? Why you could never really want me.” The sun retreated behind the clouds, casting her in shadow. “Not if you pity me, as you must pity yourself.”

He flinched under her interrogation, opening his mouth to speak—and then closed it again, chuckling dryly. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out, Elsa,” he muttered. “So there’s nothing left to say.”

She paused to study his face, noticing every bit of dirt caked into his skin and hair, and stepped back. “No,” she agreed, “I suppose not.”

She held his gaze for a few moments longer, and then walked to the window, observing him in the reflection behind her.

“You should go,” she said, her head turning halfway over her shoulder. “The ship will be leaving soon.”

She heard his cuffs clink as he stepped back. “Then I’ll be going. Goodbye, Queen Elsa.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and by the time she was ready to speak – to say anything at all – he had already left the room, the doors closed after him.

Alone, she found her gaze drawn to her father’s portrait once more. He continued to stare into the distance, never looking back at her—never seeing her, just as Hans had said.

She turned away from the painting at the thought, looking back towards the window, and regarded her reflection. It seemed different from before – as if her features had been imbued with a new and strange light – and she wondered if it was real, or just a trick of the sun as it escaped the clouds, illuminating the earth in a warm glow.

Is it so hard to believe that someone could see you as you really are?

Her heart thudded dully at the recollection as she stared, watching as her eyes sparkled like sapphires, a rare smile forming on her reflection’s lips.

“I see you,” she whispered to it, tracing those lips on the glass with her fingers.

Her tears fell even as her smile grew.

“Maybe for the first time.”

[vivilove-jonsa]

Prompt: I suppose I shall have to keep you warm then. (me: *waggles eyebrows*)

Thank you @kitten1618x for the dialogue prompt and I hope you’ll enjoy it!  

I am still doing these but it might take me a bit do them.  Feel free to drop me a line of dialogue in my inbox.

This one is Canon AU of King Jon visiting the Vale and meeting Alayne Stone.  It got longer than planned but I was having such fun with it :)

***

“Jon would never harm me.”

“How can you know that, sweetling?  Years have passed since you last saw one another.  You’re not the girl you were when you left Winterfell no more than he is the boy you knew…and I wasn’t aware you were ever that close to begin with.”

Those final words had stung though she’d been forced to acknowledge the truth of them.  They had never been all that close though she’d thought of him fondly on the rare occasions she’d thought of Jon Snow at all after they’d parted.

He’s certainly no longer the boy she’d grown up.  Once her bastard half-brother, she’s learned he is her cousin, the son of her aunt by Rhaegar Targaryen.  And he’s not a man of the Nights Watch anymore.  He’s a king now, seeking men and aid from the Vale for some coming war.

Of course, she’s no longer the girl he’d known exactly.  Sansa Stark is wanted for the murder of another king.  She’s currently missing and presumed dead by many.  Alayne Stone is the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish who’s hosting the newly chosen King in the North in the Vale for a moon.  

Littlefinger was not pleased to learn of Jon’s ascendancy.  It had ruined some scheme of his but he’s already thinking of a new plan, ways he can use this to work to his advantage…and ways he can use her, she knows.

“Keep your distance until I say otherwise,” he’s told her.

But she can’t.  She’s eager to see him, longing for a familiar face from the past and hoping he might help her return home again.  

In the hall when the king and his small retinue arrives, her tummy’s twisted in knots and she wrings her hands so sure that at any moment their eyes will meet and he’ll recognize her.

She can almost picture it like something out of a story of the true knight finding the lost maiden. Things will grow hushed and she’ll smile at him with the hope that’s never quite left her.  He’ll blink a few times and be convinced he’s seeing things until he sees her smile.  Then, he’ll close the distance between them, pull her into his arms and she’ll know she’s truly safe at last.

But none of that happens. 

Admittedly, he does look different but if anything, he favors Ned Stark more than ever.  It makes her heart thud dully.  He’s dressed in Northern furs and cloak wearing a beard. His eyes roam the hall.  She detects a subtle wariness in them.  

He’s startingly handsome, she decides.  Her cousin Jon is very handsome.  Why is that so strange?  And why does it cause an unexpected and simultaneous tightening and an unfurling within her?

She must look different as well.  She’s no longer a girl with stars in her eyes.  She keeps her true feelings closely guarded these days and plays the role she must depending upon the company.

She’s a maiden flowered, a woman fit to be wedded and bedded.  She was wedded once upon a time but she remains mercifully un-bedded for now.  

She also has dark brown hair, not the auburn he’d remember.  

He doesn’t remember her at all as it turns out.  

When her name is spoken by the knight making introductions, she sees Jon’s head raise momentarily but then his eyes seem to slide over her before he’s back to speaking of his purpose in coming. Dead men walking.  The Others being real.  An army of the dead seeking their way into the lands south of the Wall with an evil aim.  It sounds so fantastical and not at all like the sort of story she likes.  

She’s hurt that he didn’t recognize her.  But more than that, she’s hurt he didn’t give her a second glance.  She’s more than hurt.  She’s offended.  Oddly enough, it’s not about them being long, lost family to each other.  There’s a different feel to it.  Alayne Stone is reputed to be a great beauty.  Why didn’t he look at her longer or with more interest like most men do?

For a fortnight, she nurses her disappointment and uncalled for resentment.  She’s kept mostly out of sight by the machinations of Baelish although they have caught sight of each other a few times.  Actually, she’s noticed Jon looking her way more than once when he’s seated at the head table and she’s tucked down nearer the salt.  It pleases her that she’s drawn his eye in one sense at least.

But they’ve not been close enough to speak and neither of them is ever alone when they’re in the same room.

No longer able to tolerate these circumstances, she’s decided upon a bolder course tonight.  

Jon didn’t recognize her initially but who could blame him?  He’s very preoccupied by this army of the dead business and he’s not been close enough to have a good look at her since then.  She must have a moment alone with him and then he’ll see.

Balancing the tray of hot soup in one arm, she knocks upon the door of his chambers, hoping he will be alone.

She hears him beckon her to enter.  He’s hunched over a table that’s covered with maps and such when she does but he turns to see who it is.

“Lady Alayne,” he says, bowing his head.

She dips into a curtsy, graceful despite her laden arms.  She wants to speak but can’t find her voice.  

He seems very puzzled by her appearance.  And, in his eyes, there’s something.  Not recognition though.  It’s respectful but she sees it.  He’s looking at her as a man looks at a beautiful woman.  And why does that please her so?

“Is that for me?” he asks, noticing the bowl.  

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I did not call for anything.”

“It’s cold tonight and I thought you might…”  She’s fumbling.  Why is she not telling him who she is?

“Ah.  I don’t believe we’ve had a chance to speak to one another yet, have we?”

“No, Your Grace.  I’ve wanted to speak with you but...”  

Why can I not say what I wanted to say?

Because I want him to recognize me on his own…or I want something else entirely.  

Her cheeks flush at the thought.  He must notice.  He chuckles and the deep, raspy sound of them nearly makes her quiver where she stands. It’s so wicked but delightful, too.

“You don’t have to call me that, not all the time at least.  I’m not overly fond of it.  I was nothing but a bastard until not so long ago.”

“And Lord Commander of the Nights Watch.  I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

“Well, yes.”  

He grimaces and she wishes she’d bit her tongue.  Could he have really been murdered and brought back like the whispers she’s heard? She wants to know.  She wants to know so many things.  She also wants things from him she never expected.  What’s gotten into her?

“Bastards can rise high in the Watch,” he murmurs mostly to himself.    

“Well, girls can’t join the Watch but I wouldn’t call myself nothing, bastard though I am.”

He shakes his head, his momentary private reflections dismissed. “You mistake me, my lady.  I didn’t mean to insult you.  You’re a beautiful and charming young lady from all I’ve seen and I’m just...”

“You’re what?” she asks eagerly when he fails to finish.  Too eagerly perhaps.  

His eyes narrow as he looks at her.  Her heart starts to pound.  He’s really looking at her now.  He’s sure to notice her eyes or something.  

His mouth starts to work and she can barely comprehend his words because she’s longing to throw herself into his arms…and maybe kiss his neck.

“Have we ever met, my lady?”

“No, Your Grace.”  What is wrong with her?!  Why is she lying?!  Tell him!

But all those years of caution, all the lies are so ingrained and there’s this new layer of confusion over what she feels when she looks at him now.  What is this?

“Oh, well, you may leave the soup there.”  He turns back to his maps and takes a seat.  She’s been dismissed and she finds herself growing irritated.  No, more than irritated.  She’s furious.    

Frustrated, she places the tray down more roughly than intended and he looks up at her sharply. She’d like to shout at him.  She wants to scream ‘It’s me!  I’m Sansa, you stupid!’ but all those courtesies are deeply ingrained as well.

“Jon, I must confess I did come here tonight with a purpose…”

A smirk appears and there’s a touch of something dangerous in his eyes.  “From Your Grace to Jon already, is it?  I’ve been warned of Lord Baelish and his tactics but his own daughter?” He tries to look disgusted.  He doesn’t quite manage it.  

“Are you suggesting…”

“Tell me, my lady, is that soup, the soup which I did not ask for, meant to warm me tonight or are you?”

Her mouth falls open in shock.  She can’t believe Jon would say such a thing to her.  She can’t believe she’s actually willing to consider…

“Warm you?” she repeats, trying to figure out how to fix this terrible misunderstanding.  Would it be so terrible though?

“Yes, it is awfully cold in here.  I could use a bowl of hot soup or perhaps a willing wench to warm me.”  

He pats his thigh meaningfully.  Her breath hitches when she walks over to obey as if she’s in a trance.

But something warns her she’s being toyed with.  He’s leery of Littlefinger as he should be.  He has no intentions of bedding his host’s bastard daughter though the way he licks his lips suggests part of him would certainly like to.  This is a little game of sorts he’s playing, she realizes.  He’s testing her, maybe thinking she’ll run away crying or make a fool of herself in some other manner.  She’s familiar with games.  

“You’re right.  It is awfully cold,” she says, low and sultry, when she sits in his lap.  

His bravado slips quite suddenly.  His lips part and his eyes widen as she strokes his beard, allowing her fingernails to tease the flesh underneath.  Then, she takes one of his hands in hers and draws it up to her face, allowing him to stroke the smoothness of her own cheek.  He’s panting before he manages to draw it away.  

“It is, uh...cold,” he gulps.  

Maybe he had only meant to send her scurrying off but there’s a little war going on inside his head now.  She’s not fled and he’s trying to decide if he truly wants her to.  He’s woefully unskilled at these games.  He needs a lesson.  She could almost laugh that she’ll be the one to give it to him.

And so, she does laugh the next moment when she rises quickly and tells him, “I suppose I shall have to keep you warm then, Your Grace,” just before she pours the hot soup in his lap.  

But her laughter dies when he looks up in complete astonishment from his soaked breeches, tilts his head to the side and breathes a name.  “Sansa?”

[kokkuri3]

I think VnC’s treatment of female characters is better than in PH, where most of them were props, tools to further the development of males, *coughLacieyoudeservedbetter*, tools to humanise the males *coughAdayoucan’tfixhimwithlove, endlessly forgiving and impossibly saintly *coughreallyAlyssyou’rejustgonnaforgiveJacklikethatyouarenotangryatall??*, amongst other problematic tropes.

VnC’s treatment of female characters is absolutely better than PH’s-- in fact, I’d say VnC was one of the few shounen manga to consistently treat its female characters with the same passion and respect as its male ones. One thing I say often is that VnC feels as thought it was written with Mochizuki having acknowledged PH’s problems (the complete lack of nonwhite characters, the continual mistreatment of female characters, the at times facetious treatment of issues such as incest or pedophilia which is... Not A Fan) and to that effect, I think she is making a deliberate effort to make multiple female characters with their own arcs which exist outside of men, who have important relationships with other women, who are capable of agency in the same capacity as their male counterparts.

This post isn’t really about VnC though so I’m not gonna sing its praises much anymore. I’ve talked before about how, despite being written by a woman, despite clearly acknowledging misogyny as a chronic problem among violent men PH is... not especially self aware when it comes to the misogyny of its own narrative.

I’ve made my thoughts on Lacie clear before (see here) and particularly how I believe her treatment was one of the times where PH’s treatment of women was particularly remarkable in that it’s good, despite her arc being drenched in misogynistic abuse and violence. I absolutely wish that the atrocities pinned on Lacie being not her fault was made more clear (aside from what I said in the post, and Oz saying that Lacie would never desire for the destruction of the world she loved) but I don’t think her writing itself was misogynistic-- I’d even go as far as to say it was feminist, though, obviously, I’m open to disagreement.

What most certainly does piss me off, however, is the writing of Ada’s arc. Yesterday I joked about Ada being the ‘anti-Lacie,’ and while it was a joke, I still intended some seriousness with it. Unlike Lacie, who was forced to constantly reevaluate her morals and the positions of her and her loved ones as a person whose existence was an inherent sin and who was abused throughout her life, Ada’s arc is built around the fact that she has never had to question anything. Similarly, while Lacie’s arc is about how she sought her own agency despite being surrounded by and allowed only those who were at best complacent in her suffering, Ada’s arc is about how... she continually sought out and apologized for a misogynistic predator despite being surrounded by better options.

The gender of the Core of the Abyss is something which I think warrants a separate post, but the official translation refers to the Core as being female, and for nearly the entire story she takes the form of a girl. Lacie reached out to an entity referred to and most often perceived as female, sought to understand her, and was abused as a specific consequence of this. Ada, meanwhile, made no real attempts at sympathy for her female counterparts. She never sought to question the circumstances of Noise, or Echo, or their relationship with Vincent. She gave forgiveness for crimes she had not been affected by nor did she even understand; her defense of Vincent was done not out of concern for Noise’s psyche but out of unquestioned pity for her abuser.

Ada’s arc bothers me for its utter lack of agency. She was a teenaged girl, expected to fix a predatory, abusive man in his twenties, and throughout her arc she is given no real means of choosing other options nor protecting herself. Her decision to defend a predator was not even an educated one; she simply did not know. Nor did she ever really come to understand anything about Vincent, aside from brief glimpses into his past. Ada is dragged around by the plot, pursuing an abuser she did not know was an abuser yet still felt sure she could heal, being forbidden from choice-- where she was not denied choice in the sense that she lacked the knowledge to make one, she was denied choice via other characters forbidding her. She was not allowed to protect Vincent though she wanted to because Vincent felt it was too dangerous to allow her to, she was not allowed to remain beside her friends and family though she wanted to because they felt it was too dangerous to allow her to, she wasn’t allowed to stay with Vincent because it was too dangerous, she wasn’t allowed to see him again because it was too dangerous... and she’s never given the choice to do anything but go along with it.

Alyss’s forgiveness of Jack is... a more complicated issue. That Ada “forgive” Vincent-- along with many of their other interactions, I might add-- felt utterly meaningless to me. Ada had never really perceived Vincent as performing a slight against her, being perfectly willing to assign any violence he committed against her as either her own fault, or part of his mental illness, thus Not His Fault. That Alyss forgive Jack, who was violent towards her, who she understood as victimizing her and others... I don’t like it, exactly, but at least it’s not the same.

I’m not sure “forgive” is even the correct word for what she did-- she acknowledged him, and she was gentle, but she never told Jack that she forgave him. Vincent’s dialogue during Retrace CIII supplements this in saying he suspects that Alyss’s feelings for Jack are the same as his own.

Vincent feels unable to either forgive Jack nor reject him entirely, feeling that he had done too much good for him to ever really hate him. Alyss, similarly, felt too strong a love for Jack to reject him outright. She never expressed sympathy for his actions, nor did she make any attempts to defend him. There was no misunderstanding on Alyss’s part on whether her love for Jack was unhealthy, but she loved him nonetheless. When she finally “finds” him, she offers no words of kindness. She simply expressed her gratitude in having done so before calling him a hopelessly lonely man, making no further attempts at even acknowledging him.

Of course, there is the inherent misogyny of a character arc about a young girl infatuated with an adult man, to the point of destroying her other relationships in pursuit of it. That Alyss was deliberately isolated and that Jack be the only person aside from the other Alice and the Core of Abyss-- two entities that cannot be meaningfully separated from herself-- is an obvious contributor, but that does not erase the problematic aspects of her arc. Then there’s the matter of Alyss’s wish to die being the only one treated as though it was a necessary evil, as opposed to a reflection of the individual’s personal instability that should be addressed through supporting them as opposed to killing them. It’s sort of an unfair double standard, and that the plot make Alyss’s death a necessary evil is a matter of author choice, not something inherent to the work.

On the topic of other instances of misogynistic writing in PH as a whole, there’s the matter of Alice and Sharon’s arc. While I don’t think either arc is in itself misogynistic, both characters are totally ignored in favor of their male counterparts. Despite Alice being one of the most important characters in the series, she has almost no narration and is frequently characterized as, to quote a friend of mine, a “feral animal.” She’s not given the same emotional or psychological depth as Oz or Gil, despite having around the same number of appearances and being the plot’s catalyst. Sharon has her own arc, theoretically, but we only ever see it within the context of Break or Reim despite being more of a main character than the latter. That Sharon spend entire volumes not appearing a single time is a recurring joke. A major part of her characterization-- that she feel insecure in relationships due to her halted aging-- is not revealed until the last chapter of the comic. Her arc ends with her marrying to a character who... I wouldn’t have been upset if the two of them had had any real interactions outside of Break, but they didn’t. There’s no inherent problem with their relationship except it’s boring and rushed.

Then there’s the matter of the sheer number of female versus male characters whose purpose in the plot is to die violently-- the Flower Girl, Vanessa Nightray, Bernice Nightray, Miranda Barma, Mary, etc. All of these characters did little or nothing to actually progress the plot, and all are murdered by a male character with the exception of the Flower Girl (who is a sex worker in the anime adaptation, and while I don’t know the canonicity of that, I feel it worth mentioning). 

Ultimately, PH suffers a lot for Mochizuki’s internalized misogyny. Her narrative seems over eager to forgive perpetrators of misogynistic violence, and in many ways over eager to characterize sympathetic men as misogynists. A Pandora Hearts without its themes of misogyny seems... nearly incomprehensible, though that’s in large part because of how meticulous the narrative as a whole is. The improvements Mochizuki has made subsequently, though, are noticeable and greatly appreciated.