cutepencilcase

[eirikaanemo]

Venti falls in love with an Inazuman rebel. The rebel has no vision, but what they do have is a belief that everyone has an inherent right to live freely. How does Venti know about this rebel in the first place? I honestly have no idea...

Visionless Visionary

Venti x GN!Reader

1.8k Words

Warning: Minor character death mentioned, prayer (if that bothers you)

Disclaimer: I knew next to nothing about Baal when I wrote this, so it may not be an accurate representation of her character.

Inazuma is a mess. That is just a fact now. Baal has suddenly become violent and a danger to her people. So many had done nothing but hold a vision she had bestowed upon them in the first place. And because of that, she struck your cousin down. You can still remember the thump of his lifeless body hitting the ground and the steady tap, tap, tap of Baal’s shoes as she walked away.

She seemed completely unaffected by her actions. You were anything but. The scene played over and over in your nightmares for weeks, and continues to haunt you. So when the rebellion reached out to you for support you were happy to assist. You found out he had just joined their ranks and that’s why he had been targeted.

However, you don’t have a vision so there’s only so much you can do. Of course they always welcome financial support and you gave it to the best of your ability. But you knew there had to be more you could do. So you spoke to some people and it was agreed that you would go to Mondstadt and position Barbatos for his support for your cause.

He hadn’t been seen in centuries, but he was the god of freedom, right? If anyone could help them, it would be him. So with the rebellion’s blessing you took your savings and made the long journey to Mondstadt.

Finding lodging was fairly easy. The people of Mondstadt were more than willing to help you. Especially once they found out what you were there to do. ‘Such a great and admirable cause,’ they said. ‘May Barbatos bless you!’ And all you could do was hope he did.

You prayed every morning and every night for help for your people. The heavens seemed quiet, but you didn’t let that dissuade you. Surely your sheer persistence would make a difference, you reasoned. And so you kept on.

One night, rather early on, you ran into a bard not long after your evening prayer. He had been not too far from the statue and you were captivated by the beauty of the song he played. It was ancient Inazuman and for just a moment you were able to forget and be caught up in the memories of better days.

When the song ended you were disappointed and tried not to pout. Judging from the laugh the bard let out when he saw you, it must have still shown on your face. “Did you like the song?” He asks. “I know I didn’t play for long. Would you like to hear another?”

“I would love to,” you admit. He smiles and simply starts on another song, this one also of Inazuma origin. From there he transitions into a more Mondstadtian style, singing The Ballad of Freedom. You know it well, as it’s a favorite of many of the rebels. As the last note fades he turns back to you.

“What brings you here, I wonder. Has it to do with your country being torn asunder?” He inquires.

“Yes,” you reply. “I’ve come to ask Lord Barbatos for his assistance in our cause. We fight for freedom from Baal, who has become nothing but a tyrant. As for me personally, well, she killed my cousin right in front of me. Her only reasons being the vision she bestowed upon him herself not many years ago and his belief that what she was doing was wrong. No one should have to suffer that.”

“Indeed, it seems you have a need. Your cause is just and swords you thrust. But the archons don’t just help everyone, so prove to him you’re worthy of some.”

“But how do I do that?” You question the cryptic bard.

“You’ll see in time, dear friend of mine!” He winks and you find your face warming. “Though I have a question if you don’t mind. Is the assistance you’re seeking a vision like mine?” He taps the glowing turquoise vision sitting on his belt by his hip.

“No,” you shake your head. “After what happened to my cousin, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with a vision. For me they’ve been nothing but trouble.” He nods in understanding.

“I see how that would be. I must take my leave for now, we’ll see each other later anyhow.” And he’s off into the night.

He’s right that this is far from the last time you see him. And he’s right that you start noticing the tests that Barbatos has set before you. More and more people seek your help in one thing or another, especially since the one they call “honorary knight” left to Liyue. There’s much to do, but you’re happy to help them.

Eventually you stop helping them because it’s a test and start helping them because you want to; because it’s the right thing to do. You help Lisa organize the library. You help Barbara clean the cathedral. You help Amber keep watch. You help Venti with his performances from time to time. You stand in for Diluc’s barkeep while he recovers from an illness.

Days and days have passed and your relationship with Venti grows and grows. You notice more and more things about him that you rather like. His laugh. His eyes. His hands. His music. His sense of humor. His optimism.

Really, everything about him is amazing. You try to deny it at first. But you know deep down that you’re falling in love. And you’re seeing some hints that he might be too. Lots of them, because he’s started flirting with you almost constantly.

However, as your relationship grows, your hope dwindles. It’s been weeks! You’ve helped so many people and have prayed so many times. And yet you have not received an answer. Not even an acknowledgement that he has heard.

When you express your concern and discouragement to Venti, he is very concerned. “I’m just not sure how much longer I can stay,” you explain. “While I would hate to return empty handed, I can’t stay here forever.”

“Try just one more time, for me?” he asked you, looking a little guilty despite not having reason to be. It’s not like he was keeping Barbatos from speaking with you. As if he could sense your hesitance he sweetened the deal. “If you do, I’ll give you a kiss!” He wiggled his eyebrows at you and flashed you a mischievous smile and you felt a warm blush bloom on your face.

“Alright,” you grumble good-naturedly. “I’ll try one more time.” His resulting cheer and more cheery smile were nearly enough to have made you do it by themselves.

That night you approached his statue, feeling unreasonably nervous compared to the nights before. “Lord Barbatos,” you prayed. “I seek thy assistance for my people’s cause. We seek the freedom thou dost represent. Someday may we all be free to live our lives reasonably, but as we please. This is my vision, my hope. Please, if it be thy will, let thy winds be not still. Guide us to better days, for this is what I pray.”

You stay there for a long moment, waiting. Then, the wind picks up and you hear a voice from it. It seems vaguely familiar but you can’t quite figure out why.

“Your diligence and passion for your cause has secured my blessing,” the winds whispered. “My winds will be at your back and support your cause. However, if you accept a vision despite your fears, you will be able to do far more. The wind will whisper secrets to your ears. All plans spoken will be carried to your ears.

“You need not fight with it. Trust in me, that I will not strike you down for accepting this gift. In your time here in my home I have found you to be a friend to us so I will be a friend to you.”

You feel tears come to your eyes. “I accept,” you whisper. This will be incredibly valuable.There’s no way you could turn it down. And this is the kind of god you can trust and accept a vision from. He is as kind, generous, and benevolent as his people.

After a moment of silence, the winds calm and a gleaming turquoise vision lies before you, dangling from a necklace like a pendant. It’s smaller than some others you’ve seen and is hidden easily when you slide it over your head and under your shirt. That will be invaluable when you return to Inazuma. It would be most suspicious for you to return with one after everything that’s happened.

You take another moment to catch your breath and wipe the tears from your eyes. Then you take a particularly deep breath to steady yourself and make your way back to Venti. “How did it go?” He asks, and you smile in response.

“It went very well,” you said, pulling the pendant out to show him your new vision. “Now we match! Now… I believe I was promised a kiss?”

The smile on his face at your teasing words could have lit up a room, if you were in one. He took your hands in his and tugged you closer gently before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. It was a pleasant kiss, chaste but lingering and sweet.

He giggled at the face you made when he pulled away. You joined it, adding your laughter to his. Between the blessing and his kiss you felt like you were on top of the world. Then you remembered something that brought you down from your high.

“Venti, you know this means I have to leave now, right?” You inquire.

His face fell to a serious and thoughtful expression before it softened and he sent you a small smile. “Yeah, I know. You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” you respond softly. “I love you too.”

He nods. “Then I’ll wait for you. So don’t take too long, okay?”

“Of course, I’ll do what I can,” you reply.

Your parting is sad, but hopeful as he waves you goodbye until you’re so far away that he can’t see you. He sings nearly nothing but sappy love songs for the next week. He misses you, but knows you’ll be back. His winds won’t let anything happen to you after all.

When you return to Inazuma you find that all the rebels with anemo visions had their power boosted, the ships sailed swifter with the wind behind them, and the information the wind brought you gave you many victories. The struggle was still difficult, but the help you had obtained made a serious difference and soon enough you were headed back to Mondstadt.

You are headed home. After all, home is where the heart is.

tag list: @clouds-rambles

[authenticcadence18]

“Ice Cream and Dances Pt. 2: Electric Boogaloo” Ch. 2

…

HELLO I AM POSTING A FIC UPDATE!!!!!!!! :DD

(Also a disclaimer! This fic uses the phrase “more than friends” a lot, and I wrote the first chapter before I realized that phrase can imply that friendships are lesser than romantic relationships. I want to make it clear that I do not see romantic relationships as inherently more valuable than friendships. Friendship is equally as important!!!! In the context of Phineas and Isabella, starting a romantic relationship would literally be them becoming “more than friends” because they would then be romantic partners AND friends. So, when I use that phrase in this fic moving forward, this is the meaning I’m choosing to interpret it as!)

…

“Ice Cream and Dances” by FrsdGirl

AO3

Previous Chapter

…

Isabella did her best to focus on inhaling and exhaling as Phineas led her back onto the dance floor.

“THIS IS A FRIEND THING.”

Once they found an empty spot, Phineas let go of Isabella’s hand and turned to face her, eyes wide and face flushed and GOODNESS HE LOOKED CUTE—

“HYPOTHETICAL. PLATONIC.”

Somehow, Isabella’s hands found their way to Phineas’s shoulders, though she wasn’t consciously aware of it until she felt him gently place his hands on her waist and oh goodness, friend thing or not, Phineas still wanted to dance with her and be close to her even though they’d already danced earlier aND—

“NO. STOP IT. KEEP IT TOGETHER, GARCIA-SHAPIRO.”

For about half a minute, they swayed platonically (or, well, somewhat platonically), neither saying a word.

Isabella just kept on focusing on breathing, on making sure she didn’t lean too close to Phineas, on keeping the desire to admit she’d actually love to be here with him on a real date at bay.

(She couldn’t have known Phineas was focusing on very similar things.)

Sure, she’d been nervous when they danced like this earlier. But those nerves were nothing compared to the nerves she was experiencing now because NOW, she had much more to worry about.

This was still strictly a friend thing, but it was also now a hypothetical more-than-friends-who-were-on-a-date thing. Except it WASN’T actually hypothetical in Isabella’s case, and she couldn’t help but hope that it might be more than hypothetical for Phineas as well but NO, she couldn’t give in to that hope, that was dangerous, so she needed to maintain a good balance between honesty and nonchalance about all this but that was difficult to do when he was so close and holding her and good grief , why’d she ever taken Buford up on his dare, and—

“Isabella? Are you okay?”

Isabella started and blinked, clearing her head of myriad worries with a shake to find Phineas staring at her with concern in his eyes.

“You kinda spaced out there for a second…” he continued. “And you looked a little worried. Is something wrong? Would you rather do something else?”

“NO!!!!!�� Isabella shot back. A few nearby couples darted their heads in their direction, and she winced (the LAST thing she wanted to do was draw more attention to her and Phineas after their “grand entrance”).

“I...I just mean… I’m fine. Really.” She did her best to muster a smile for Phineas’s sake. “Just got lost in thought for a bit, you know?”

Phineas grinned, seemingly relieved to know that she was okay (though that could’ve just been Isabella reading into things). “Been there, done that!” he said.

Isabella chuckled a little, the image of Phineas hunched over his phone flickering in her memory. “I bet! You looked pretty lost in thought while Buford and I were dancing earlier. Who were you texting? Or were you testing out a new app?”

She felt a little more at ease now that she was talking with Phineas (as opposed to drowning in her own thoughts.)

“Huh??” Phineas blinked and bit his lip, shoulders briefly tensing up beneath Isabella’s hands. “...UH, I was just...texting Candace!”

“Really? It must have been an intense conversation, you looked so focused. Did she ask you for advice on a case assignment or something?”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t that… I just….uh” Phineas stared at her for a second and then up at the sky before continuing, “...I talk with her a lot these days. She’s got good advice.”

Isabella smiled and nodded in agreement in response.

(Perhaps she was a little curious to know what exactly Phineas had been discussing with Candace. But she knew he’d tell her if he wanted to, and she didn’t want to press him in case he didn’t.)

In the meantime, she could change the subject.

“So...have you been brainstorming any new projects lately?” she asked. “Other than the Stargazer 3000 of course, though if you want to talk about that I’m all ears!”

Phineas’s eyes practically ignited with excitement, making something flutter and glow in Isabella’s chest.

“Yeah!!!” he exclaimed. “Yesterday Ferb and I started experimenting with levitating carpets, like we did when we were kids! We want to see if we can replicate the effects over a smaller surface. But the technology isn’t quite ready yet…..”

…

“And THAT’S how we plan to modify our pre-existing anti-gravity quantum state lift disk technology to function effectively over a smaller surface area!! We’re planning on finishing up a prototype tomorrow and using it for a project.”

“Cool!! Can I come over and help out?”

“Of course! You never have to ask to come over, Isabella. I’ll—er, we’ll always be glad to have you around.”

“Thanks!”

Sometimes, it was easy to take living across the street from Phineas for granted. Because of that, Isabella was used to his boundless creativity and ideas, used to his uncanny ability to make the impossible possible...but she never wanted to lose sight of how extraordinary just being able to be used to those things was.

Moments like this reminded her that Phineas was brilliant .

And handsome.

….brilliantly handsome.

She cracked a smile at that last thought.

Phineas, fortunately, didn’t ask why she was smiling. He just smiled back...and then tilted his head, his expression morphing from fond to thoughtful.

“.....I just realized something,” he said. “We danced earlier.”

Isabella nodded, unsure where he was going with this.

“I guess, I just realized…. This—you know, us , dancing together—it doesn’t feel much different from how it felt before, when we were dancing but like...strictly as friends. ….uH! Not that we aren’t dancing strictly as friends right now! But...the hypothetical more-than-friends thing you were wondering about...you’d think it would make things feel more different….but if it’s us, it doesn’t. Not really.”

A blush sprawled across Isabella’s face. She’d been so wrapped up in listening to Phineas’s ideas, she’d almost forgotten about the hypothetical more-than-friends thing.

But Phineas apparently hadn’t forgotten.

“Uh—is that still a thing we’re doing?” he asked. “Pretending this is, like…a date? Or thinking about what it would be like if it were? Because I thought we were, but maybe I misunderstood, and if so that’s my bad—”

“No, you didn’t misunderstand!!!” Isabella replied quickly. “And, we can keep pretending this is a date. If you want.”

Phineas exhaled with a smile. “Cool!”

“Yup! Cool!” Isabella agreed.

Whew.

“And, you’re right,” she continued. “It doesn’t feel much different from how it did before...but it feels right. Talking with you feels better than just dancing in silence and staring at each other. I guess other couples might do that, but not us.”

“Yeah!!” Phineas let out a gentle chuckle. “I guess this means, if we were a couple, we wouldn’t act much differently from how we do now.”

“That’s what happens when you fall for your best friend, huh?” Isabella gave Phineas a knowing grin (she was basically a world-renowned expert on this subject). “Since there’s already a great foundation of friendship in place, romantic feelings can just develop naturally from what’s already there.”

….wait a second.

“….uH!!!” she choked, jerking back and clutching her hands to her chest on instinct. “Not that I’d know that personally!! Just, uh! In movies and stuff! That’s how it always goes. Yup. And we’re best friends, so! In this hypothetical scenario, we’d be best friends who fell for each other. Hypothetically.”

“Okaaayyyy time to divert the subject, Garcia-Shapiro.”

“People in movies have it easy….” she continued, trying her best to sound light and casual. “They meet and then, less than two hours later, BOOM! They’re together, true love for life!! Or...at least, they’re together until a sequel comes out and they’ve broken up offscreen just to get back together again….”

(The older Isabella got, the less patience she had for subpar romance movies and subplots.)

“Yeah….it’s a lot harder in real life...” Phineas agreed quietly. “Though, we’d be remiss if we didn’t talk about how it is hard for couples in TV shows. Like, Candace used to watch this show where the two main characters were in love but they didn’t realize it, and they kept on ALMOST confessing or getting together but didn’t actually get together until the very end. She’d get so frustrated with them, called them the ‘token will they/won’t they couple.’ There were a few steady side-couples though, Candace always used to say they made watching the show a little easier.”

He leaned in, a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye, and whispered, “She always used to compare herself and Jeremy to the main couple, but between you and me, the two of them are definitely more the ‘steady side-couple’ type.”

Isabella snickered. “ Oh yeah. They had it easy! They liked each other from the beginning, went on dates, started officially dating and then just...stayed that way.”

“If only it were always that simple….” Phineas sighed.

“If Candace and Jeremy are a steady side couple, what would that make us?” Isabella asked.

She flinched and quickly added, “uH!!! In a hypothetical sense!!!!”

Phineas blinked. “UM!!! That’s a great question!!!”

...was he blushing? Or was it a trick of the light?

“I guess, uh….we’d be the token ‘will they/won’t they’ couple?”

he rubbed the back of his neck and chucked slightly. “I mean, uh...in your hypothetical scenario, I’m not sure if we’d already be together or if this would be our first time doing something together. Together -together, I mean. On a date, you know. But, uh…….. Okay, let’s say I had feelings for you. Hypothetically. I’d have no reason to believe you returned those feelings.”

Isabella bit her lip and resisted the urge to roll her eyes into the nearest adjacent galaxy.

That was Phineas, alright. Oblivious as always.

“...BUT!!” he continued, “if you returned them without knowing about MY feelings, that would be a classic ‘will they/won’t they’ scenario. At least, according to Candace, anyway….yup….”

He suddenly seemed quite interested in staring at the grass beneath their feet.

Isabella followed his gaze and studied the ground for a bit, both to avoid pondering their hypothetical couple status any longer AND because, if Phineas was staring at the grass, it likely meant something interesting was happening down there.

...except nothing interesting was happening.

“.....okay, there’s no way the grass is interesting enough to warrant us staring at it for this long,” she mused. “You didn’t get hit with a dull and boring ray, did you?”

(She was mostly joking, but one could never be too careful in Danville.)

Phineas glanced back up at her and just stared at a moment before cracking a smile.

“Funny you should mention that….i was JUST thinking about the color beige….”

A moment passed.

And then he started to giggle. Quietly at first…and then not so quietly. His amusement was contagious, and soon Isabella was caught up in it too, the two of them grinning and laughing and as carefree as could be, all the awkwardness momentarily gone.

(The ruckus garnered some more stares, as the music playing was still pretty soft….but Isabella didn’t really care about that anymore. Having fun with Phineas was way more important than worrying about what others thought.)

Gradually, their laughter died down, with Phineas giving one final giggle and wiping a tear from his cheek before placing his hand back on Isabella’s waist, eyes shining with mirth.

Isabella gazed at him with a beaming smile.

There was just something about Phineas’s laughter, something about the way he smiled so brightly and expressed such genuine positivity so effortlessly, that had fascinated her and made her head spin since they were kids....and right now, it was hard to feel scared of expressing her true feelings for him.

(In other words, she was sooo in love with him right now.)

“You know….” she whispered with a flirtatious grin, “...if WE were dating—uh, on a date, within the parameters of the hypothetical more-than-friends thing!!!”

Good save, Garcia-Shapiro.

“...I’d have told you how handsome you look by now.”

“Huh?” Phineas blinked and glanced down at his outfit. “...Oh! Thanks! ...but, I’m not really dressed for a date….I wear this shirt at least once a week, and I haven't brushed my hair since this morning.”

“Aw, Phineas, you ALWAYS look handsome,” Isabella assured him. “No matter what. I mean, between the red hair and all your freckles and your acute nose and your SMILE, I’m not sure how anyone could NOT see how handsome you are…. And it’s not just your looks either, it’s your laugh and the way you can light up anyone and anything around you just by being you, it all makes you handsome, and……”

A bit of the happy fog in Isabella’s brain evaporated, allowing her to realize she’d been rambling to Phineas about how handsome he was for the past 20 seconds.

Oops.

“uH!!!! That is! That’s what I would say if this wasn’t a friend thing! But it is! So! Uh. You can just forget I said all that, if you want….”

She winced and clenched her eyes shut. That had been too much, she’d totally taken things too far, and now Phineas would probably be super weirded out...

Except.

One glance at Phineas revealed he wasn’t weirded out at all. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes soft, mouth slightly agape with what might have been astonishment.

He looked flustered, but in a good way.

And then...he smiled again. He smiled at her.

And it was a warm smile, a gentle smile, perhaps the most adoration-filled smile Isabella had ever seen and it was directed at her and doing funny things to her heart.

“Well….” he whispered softly, “...if this weren’t a friend thing, I’d have already told you you look as beautiful as ever…. But, since this is a friend thing and I haven’t told you yet….I’ll just tell you now. Isabella, you look as beautiful as ever.”

He grinned before continuing on in a manner similar to how Isabella had spoken a bit ago.

“I mean, between your eyes, and your hair, and the way your entire face seems to light up when you smile, and your adorable laughter, and the way you’re brave enough to say whatever’s on your mind…..I don’t think anyone else is as beautiful as you, Isabella. In every sense of the word.”

Isabella’s heart was going to pound right out of her chest. Or perhaps her knees would give out and she’d collapse right here, sprawled across the grass, running Phineas’s words and tender looks over and over again in her head for the foreseeable future.

It wouldn’t be a bad way to spend the rest of the evening.

But Phineas wasn’t done yet. He drew a hand back and then reached out for Isabella’s face...only to flinch and freeze in place.

“...uH!!” he breathed, hand still suspended in mid-air. “....if this were a date, I think I’d unconsciously reach out to brush a lock of hair behind your ear after saying all those things, just to see you better! ...would you be alright with that?”

Isabella didn’t trust herself to piece a coherent sentence together at the moment, but she knew she’d definitely be alright with that, so she nodded her head.

Phineas inhaled and tentatively reached out until his fingers were gracing Isabella’s cheek and then ever-so-gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

And once again, Isabella did her best to focus on inhaling and exhaling, on staying present in the moment…but this time, she wasn’t constantly reminding herself this was just pretend.

Because….what if it wasn’t?

Phineas was one of the most authentic people Isabella knew. Authentic to a fault, almost.

And that trademark authenticity, which she’d come to recognize in all of his inventions and actions and words in the years they’d been friends…..she recognized it now. In the hand cradling her face and the eyes gazing at her softly and the tender smile that hovered a mere foot or two from her own.

…perhaps Phineas had tried to ask her here on a date earlier.

Perhaps Buford had been right.

…

Thanks for reading!! And thanks as always to the lovely FrsdGirl for inspiring this fic and allowing me to write it and also for being just, the best ever, I adore you my friend🥺💕.

This isn’t the end btw, I know how this is gonna end, just haven’t written it properly yet!

[lapinmiel]

Mirror, Mirror

Felix and OC (Female), 2,4K. (Part 2)

Phoebe’s life was never one of an adventure, even as a vampire — after being discovered by the Volturi for her talent, she finds herself running away from the world’s most powerful organization, and soon she finds herself in a complete lie and truth situation, with the anchor of her lover leading her to his side.

Part 1, Part 2

Saladin's jaw was clenched like a vise. Horror was evident in his eyes as if they were water droplets in a river as clear as glass, and the water droplets colliding with each other soon found Phoebe in all the confusion and fear. If her heart was alive, it would already have kept pace with the footsteps of approaching death, pounding madly — for she knew, the death was close now, like a shadow lurking around her neck.

"What are we gonna do?" asked Phoebe.

Both of their minds seemed to have stopped. Ideas did not flow with inherent ease. His thoughts, like an elephant trying to get through a door, and the instincts that were supposed to get them out of this trap, were silenced now.

“Should we take another plane and go?”

Phoebe frowned. “We are not close enough.” He looked back to where they had come from. She was right, they had proceeded on a straight street, quite far from the airport. It wouldn't have taken them a minute to come back, of course, but Phoebe wanted to fully understand the situation before she gave herself up to fear.

“I wonder where we are,” she said quietly. "Maybe we're not close to Volterra. Sicily?"

“This is not the time to think about it.” said Saladin, with clear determination in his voice. “Wherever we are, it takes minutes to get caught.”

Phoebe tried not to get caught up in the blinding energy of her afraid friend, but if a centuries-old vampire was so afraid of the Volturi, the intensity of emotion she had to feel must have been more than she could handle.

“Let’s go then.” she said.

Within seconds, they disappeared into the shadows and returned to the airport, waiting for the planes to take off. Unlike the first place they went, it was more secluded and the planes didn't take off as often. They waited for about ten minutes. Then, as an airplane started to move, they run, got into the wheels section as before, and waited for the take off. But nothing went the way they wanted, and it wouldn't for a long time.

Contrary to expectations, the plane made its way to the hangar, not the runway. Since Phoebe and Saladin could not see where the plane was going from where they were, they thought that the vehicle was proceeding normally, and during the minutes they spent on the ground, they thought that they were on the runway. Even the growing voices of humans didn't make them think something was wrong, as it was only the second time they had boarded a plane. They didn’t know what was normal and what was not. But within fifteen minutes of being there, they realized they weren’t going anywhere. This understanding brought a storm and a flood of fear that would be hard to stop.

"What are we gonna do?" asked Saladin.

Phoebe's brows were furrowed and her eyes were squinted like a fox's. She was trying to think. In addition to protecting himself, she also felt in her heart not to let down a vampire who had traveled the world for centuries but now needed her protection, and that responsibility felt like it would crush her if she didn't shed it quickly.

“Let's go on another plane,” she said. "If it doesn't take off, to another one."

Saladin's eyes were so innocent that Phoebe felt the emotion to protect him mix with compassion.

Then, all of a sudden, he was torn from where he was and crashed into the ground.

There was a loud thump, and a smashing sound — then Phoebe was pulled by someone by the shoulders with a speed that her eyes couldn't catch, and she found herself outside the plane, in the middle of the hangar.

She could see Saladin struggling with something unseen. He got punched with a left hook first, then a blow to the jaw; Then whatever was beating him somehow dropped him on his back, and then grabbed him by the neck and swung him in mid-air, hitting the ground. They couldn't see anything. Neither Saladin nor Phoebe knew who they were up against.

Phoebe was aware that someone big was holding her, for her neck had been pinched by one's arm, and both of her arms were held steady by another, as if with a chain. She couldn't see who it was, maybe she didn't want to see it, because the fear running through her told her to just close her eyes. It was as if all her senses were blinded.

She heard Saladin getting punched several more times. Then the voices stopped, and the steps made it clear that two people were approaching Phoebe.

"Use your shield," said a strange, weary voice, "Surround us all."

His body full of fissures trying to heal. Saladin did what he thought was the only way to avoid being killed, and focused, using his shield to envelop all four.

Then, at the other end of the hangar, two rushing footsteps were heard. The two owners of the steps approached the quartet and stopped.

"It was a tragic mistake to think you could escape from us."

A familiar voice. Phoebe opened her eyes, a wave of shock and fear hit her.

It was right in front of her. Jane. Next to her stood a woman with light brown hair, whom she had never seen before. She was considerably taller than Jane, and she had slightly smiling lips, in contrast to Jane's bloodless killer expression. These two women, clad in jet-black robes, gave Phoebe fears she had never felt before, and she felt her nonexistent blood burning in her veins.

Jane sighed lightly.

“Can you get past the shield?”

The woman beside her squinted slightly after Jane's question. She was trying to do something. But it didn’t work, because,"No." was her only reply.

“Then it should be something else, not a shield. A neutralizer, perhaps.”

Phoebe felt the sound waves emanating from her chest throughout her body as the giant holding her spoke. The voice was deep, rough, and judging by his accent, he was at least five hundred years old, and worst of all, he was close enough to kill Phoebe in one hit.

“Have we encountered such power before?” he asked.

“No.” the woman next to Jane said. Jane curled her lips slightly at this answer and smiled. “Aro once talked about a vampire that had a similar talent, he could stop anyone’s talent from working. But he died before Aro could invite him.” Her smile disappeared.

“Aro will like it. We're leaving." she said, giving Phoebe a cold look. Jane and the woman next to her disappeared in an instant. Then, Saladin and the little man holding him, who Phoebe could see now, left, leaving Phoebe and the person who had strangled her alone.

She was looking for something to hold onto and use. Maybe this person had a power, augmented strength, or something — she searched, tried to feel it in her mind, but found nothing. “I don't have any power for you to take me down,” the man said, when he finally realized that the girl's inactivity was due to her focusing on something else. “You can only defeat me with your body.”

Phoebe grit her teeth. Then she found herself being carried in his chest as he ran.

Soon after, she found herself in a hilly city. The man slowed when he got to the big doors, and when the doors opened he entered with the same pace. His grip on Phoebe must have looked funny to those who opened the door for him, as Phoebe heard a slight chuckle, but the giant man instantly turned around and gave the giggled man a stern look. So, Phoebe thought she did look weird, because even though she had been held by him for so long, she still couldn't see his face. It was possible that he was one of those who had come to catch her the day before, but she did not know how many giant vampires the Volturi had, and she certainly did not want to put him at a psychological advantage just because she had seen and feared him before. In the blink of an eye, she found himself walking through another set of doors and into a large, domed hall.

In front of her, on a platform, were three men sitting on thrones. She knew them from Saladin's stories: Caius, the blond and ruthless o e, the sickly-looking Marcus, and Aro in the middle, whose eyes were shining bright even from there.

Aro. The nakedness of the name left a strange taste in her mind. Sour, and also bitter.

The giant holding her slowly loosened his arms and dropped Phoebe to the ground, grabbing her softly by one shoulder and pushing her forward.

Aro slowly descended from the platform he was on, and joined his hands in front of him.

"Welcome." he said, raising his hands slightly to the sides. He had an innocent smile on his face, as if he wasn't the biggest mafia in the world.

She couldn't help her expression, Phoebe frowned while her lips tightened as if she were staring at something hideous. Saladin, on the other hand, was trying to collect himself.

“I heard that your talent is a rare one that no one has seen before.” said Aro, in his same calm voice. He quickly turned his eyes to someone else and looked back at Phoebe.

Then, Phoebe felt the same thing again: something was trying to seep into her skin. This time it wasn't harsh, it wasn't like fire either, it was more like a sneaking mist pouring through the windows. Cool and almost numb.

Phoebe invited him in. She then gathered the feeling up, turned it into a light, and reflected it like a mirror.

Startled, she saw the mind reader's eyes widen as he pulled back, and he audibly gasped. Then she saw the memories flooding into her mind. The brightest was the way she looked at herself through his eyes, then she saw simultaneously his devotion to Aro, and the man behind her. That was him, she thought, the man from that day.

He quickly turned to Aro, the mind reader, whose name she had learned was Gerard. When Phoebe looked at him the same way, she saw admiration in his blazing eyes. Fascination.

Aro folded his hands in front of him again. The smile on his face turned into a completely happy expression.

"Matchless." he said as he approached the girl. “Nobody like you has ever existed.”

He stopped one step ahead of her. He lifted his hand and brought it close to her face, but did not touch it. His hands were close enough to feel her warmth, but he didn't come any closer, realizing the damage a single touch could do to him. He wasn't going to touch her, ever.

He couldn't hide her admiration for her, but then pulled back, remembering his role. He made his way to the middle of the hall, and turned back to Phoebe. All the while, Felix, who was the name of the man behind her as she learned from the mind reader, was holding her softly on her shoulder. The heaviness was uncomfortable, but she knew it: releasing it would give her the upper hand.

“Join us,” said Aro. “Find yourself a place at the top of the world.”

Phoebe didn't answer.

Aro must have taken it upon himself to persuade her, so he continued speaking.

“Rise with us to the top of our clan. You are too important to be left alone, you were born to serve a higher purpose.”

“What I was born for is none of your business.” said Phoebe suddenly. He was surprised, too, but the words were out of his mouth once. She believed that she was made to live with Saladin after all, to spend his life with him while they looked for Zareen. Saladin had told her before that being erased from the minds of all vampires could be the only way to true freedom, and Phoebe was convinced that living as a ghost would serve her better.

Aro's smile faded slightly, but he wasn't going to give up.

"I'm offering you a week's trial," he said calmly. He was showing Phoebe the privilege he didn't show to others, he had to. He could not allow such a precious diamond to be lost in the hands of uncivilized savages. "Join us. If you want to go after a week, you will be free.”

Phoebe was thinking. Coming here and standing under the dome of this hall, seeing that the Volturi were not monsters with colorless skin, overgrown teeth, and elongated nails, had turned the cogs in her mind.

“We'll help you hone your skill,” Aro continued after a short pause. “We can help you understand exactly what you do, how you do it, and teach you to use it. Over the years, you will become one of our strongest.”

Phoebe saw a faint glint in the expressionless eyes of Marcus, who sat behind Aro. Then she had that feeling again. Her skin was tingling. It must be Marcus, she thought to herself. Saladin hadn't told her what Marcus' talent was, but Phoebe couldn't pass up the opportunity to get to know a new talent.

She let the feeling come into his and then used it. Suddenly she saw how everyone in the room felt about each other as clearly as day.

Caius had hidden his anger towards Aro in a black box and covered it with devotion. Jane could suffocate anyone in the room but her brother and without feeling any remorse, the light brown-haired woman next to Jane loved everyone, and everyone loved her, in a shaky way.

Phoebe saw everyone in the room. She couldn't understand what had happened when she saw a few gray bruises in the love bond between him and Saladin, but then she saw weak flower buds just beginning to sprout between herself and the man standing behind her.

She suddenly threw the skill she had used out of her mind. Marcus was beginning to suspect that she was using his talent, it was evident in his eyes. Aro was still in front of him with his smiling but frightening face.

Phoebe didn't know what to decide, what to say. The wheels in her mind began to turn again. They can't hurt me, she thought. Their powers are useless on me. I can fight. If they try to imprison me, I can escape.

It bothered Phoebe that the Volturi no longer looked like terrifying creatures, and that Saladin's feelings for her were not as innocent as she had expected. She felt a vague disappointment in her dead heart, and that disappointment was changing the course of her decisions.

I can escape.

It was the last straw. She mustered up her courage. She could at least stay here for a week. She could see what the Volturi were doing. Not only that, but she could find out if they were truly monstrous or simply maintaining order and secrecy. Most importantly, he could learn what he could do with her talent. And if things didn’t go her way, she would escape, and find Zareen herself.

She took a deep breath, even though the oxygen didn't do anything to her.

“Okay,” she said with a certain shakiness in her voice, “I'm staying.”

[sunshine-shitposts]

Here I am, after more than a week! 👀 whups～

(Part 1)

tw: mentions of past spousal abuse

Dust in the Wind—Part 2

Ignoring the lack of windows to the outside, it looked like a normal living room. There was a sitting area, with a large, low coffee table surrounded by a spacious L-shaped sectional on one side and two matching arm chairs on the other. It was minimally decorated, though signs of occupancy existed—scatterings of books on the coffee table with papers and notes, a few pairs of Sunnie-sized shoes next to the entrance, a sticky note on the mirror next to the door ("don't stare at yourself TOO much" it said, in rather messy handwriting), and some blankets bunched up here and there. A quiet yet efficient ceiling fan moved air slowly through the underground room, the hardwood floor was dark in color, and a large area rug made the sitting area comfortable, but other than that, it was relatively plain.

The second Sunnie opened the door and walked through, however, Jotaro heard a voice he had planned on never hearing again.

"My darling Sunshine, you've returned to me!" Came a deep exclamation from beyond a corner as a muscular blonde man emerged and rushed over.

"Oh my fucking god-OOF–" was the only thing Sunnie could get out before she was swept up in Dio's arms, her backpack jingling and feet dangling uselessly as he twirled her around. "Put me down, asshole!! We have company!"

"Can you blame me, dearest? I haven't seen you in several days, and it gets oh so terribly lonely down here," the blonde man chuckled, still holding her tight.

"Catherine talks to you daily!! You're fine!!" She complained, wiggling in his unrelenting grasp.

At the mention of her name, the COO huffed a sigh and shut the door behind her.

"Oh, my sweet, she's delightful company, but she's not you," the man cooed, taking and squishing Sunnie's cheeks in his talons adoringly.

Jotaro's jaw and fists clenched so hard they hurt, and Mrs. Gupta put her hand on his shoulder to try to steady him, but Star Platinum had already leapt out, ready to fight.

"Ora!" The Stand shouted, the roar-like battlecry causing Dio to stop twirling Sunnie around and look at the Joestar, expression nearly catlike in its smugness. Sunnie caught her first glimpse of Jotaro's Stand and her eyes widened almost comically.

"Oooooh… big boy…" she whispered in awe.

"You must be this dimension's Jotaro," Dio hummed, amber eyes surveying both the Joestar and his Stand, "Where I come from, your Star Platinum is green."

"Bastard," Jotaro hissed.

"You're not wrong," the man smirked as he set Sunnie down, playfully removing her hat–which he tossed off somewhere–and ruffling her hair as she slid her backpack off and chucked it on the L-shaped portion of the large sectional sofa.

"How the hell did you get here," Jotaro growled, eyes burning with wrath as his entire body tensed, "I killed you."

"Ah, see, there's your problem," Dio grinned, wagging a sharply-manicured claw, "You killed a me. Not me-me."

In an instant, Jotaro's hand was inches from Dio's neck, and a glimmering turquoise and silver hand separated them, slightly tapered fingers spread as if to catch something as the wing shape on the wrist flared wildly.

Jotaro looked to the side to see Dust in the Wind staring at him with narrowed yellow eyes, the sound of distant windchimes clinking as it focused on him with a sharpness that was strange from a relatively featureless face. Sunnie was standing in between the two taller men, green eyes seemingly on fire as they caught his own.

"I will do it, Jotaro," she said, voice low and monotone as she stared at him, unblinking, with an intensity he didn't expect from her. With all the friendliness and casual demeanor he'd seen from her in the short time they'd known each other, this piercingly focused glare was downright out of character, "This is my job."

Jotaro looked back up and saw Dio staring down at Sunnie with a strange look in his eyes, his lips pulled back in a nearly manic grin. It seemed like sheer delight.

"Jotaro, relax," Mrs. Gupta huffed, unphased by the possible violence brewing in front of her as she sat down in a wingback chair opposite a main sofa, "Please, I've had enough headaches dealing with the board today." When there was no movement between the others in the room, she patted her thigh sharply. "Sunnie, call Windy off."

She hesitated, but Dust in the Wind shrank back into Sunnie, glaring at Jotaro the entire time.

"Thank you, Sunnie," Mrs. Gupta said softly, which made Jotaro's brows furrow in realization. He turned, taking his attention off of Dio and turning it to the COO instead.

"You have a Stand as well," he stated, voice soft, and she nodded.

"That I do," she responded, and a massive, lithe, dark, armor-clad figure flashed behind her for a split second, plate armor shining iridescent like the wings of a grackle for the briefest of moments. Jotaro caught a glimpse of a long neck and a helmeted face, veiled on the sides by a long flowing cloth, before the Stand disappeared, "But that is neither here nor there. Dio is not under any circumstances going to hurt you or your family. Should he try, he will be summarily turned into dust."

"You speak of my possible demise so inelegantly, Catherine," Dio sighed, pulling Sunnie gingerly down on the sofa close to him as she made a strange squawking noise in surprise, "It's kind of depressing."

"It is what it is," she replied, leveling him with a bored look.

Jotaro never thought he'd see it, but Dio pouted. It didn't look right to him. It made him uncomfortable to see that monster acting so normal. "So. My question stands," Jotaro demanded, voice sharp. Mrs. Gupta shifted, giving him a tired glance.

"About half a year ago, we received communication from a Speedwagon office near a dig site in northern Norway that a man claiming to be Dio had appeared and wanted to strike a deal with the Foundation. He made his way, in secured vehicles and with appropriate escort, here, to Dallas, where we had an appropriate facility to house him as we ascertained his goal," the COO said, voice level and nearly clinical as she recounted the events, "Once he was deemed a relative non-threat, we began negotiations and arrived at an appropriate arrangement."

Jotaro's eyes immediately locked onto her. "Arrangement?" he practically hissed.

"He offered his body and service in exchange for a safe haven," Mrs. Gupta stated, not even phased by the anger rolling off the Joestar.

"Why the hell did the Foundation agree?" Jotaro growled, "What the fuck could this asshole have that anyone needs?"

"Are you kidding??" Sunnie suddenly yelped, eyes going wide as she leaned forward on the sofa, her demeanor completely changing, "There's so much we can learn from him! His regenerative capabilities in particular are fascinating, so much faster than in other creatures, like planarians!! The scientific applications are not only wide-reaching, but could help so many people in the future. Severed limbs, damaged organs, you name it. Like, holy shit, there's so much potential to help people in his big stupid body!!" Dio chuckled as Sunnie had gotten increasingly animated, green eyes sparkling as she whacked his arm three times to emphasize the 'big stupid body' bit.

"I have a relative who can heal people," Jotaro snapped, "Why not study him?"

"It's not the same and you know it," Sunnie shot back, "Stand abilities can't be bottled and sold as medicine or gene therapies; at least, none we've seen. Not like this. Dio's abilities are entirely biological. When he used the mask on himself, it altered his body. Probably rewrote large swaths of genetic code. These are advances we can actually implement, Jotaro. Don't let your previous experiences cloud your vision."

"And why are you here?" Jotaro asked, glaring at her, "From what I can tell, you were a mere civilian until recently. How much do you know about the mask, or my family's past?"

The second the full weight of his simmering rage seemed to settle with her, Sunnie's eyes widened and her fists tightened. She clammed up, shaking slightly. Dio looked at her and immediately snaked his hand into her hair, rubbing a thumb against her scalp.

"I personally requested her as my companion," he said, voice low, before looking back at Jotaro, "The circumstances were discussed with her and she accepted, knowing full well what she was getting into."

"And, like… I know the basics of what happened. What you went through to save your mom," Sunnie's eyes caught Jotaro's, her gaze sincere, "I'd destroy the world to keep my mom safe. I get it. But him?" She pointed at Dio, "He's not the same one you fought. That man is dead. So your beef isn't with this one."

Mrs. Gupta leaned against one side of her chair. "If it makes you feel any better, Jotaro, we have… ways of determining points of origin. You'd have to ask Ellison about it, but while most of Dio's markers do line up with ours, there are a few that are different enough to prove that he didn't come from here."

"Besides, you can't feel it, can you?" Dio grinned.

"Feel what?" Jotaro snarled, turning his attention to the vampire.

"The inherent connection that we who bear the birthmark have. The connection that I should have to you, and any other members of the Joestar family," he gestured with an elegantly clawed finger to the man in front of him, "because I am in possession of Jonathan Joestar's body."

Jotaro's gaze narrowed.

"I may still be Dio," the vampire continued, crossing one leg over the other, "but I am not your Dio. And there is enough of a difference between us for the bloodline connection to not be there at all. You didn't even notice when I came to this world, did you?"

Jotaro hated to admit that Dio had a point. He had no idea until he was contacted by the Foundation. There had been no indication whatsoever.

Having not received an answer, Dio smirked. "That's what I thought," his eyes narrowed as well, glinting unnaturally as he seemingly read Jotaro's mind, "You truly had no idea."

"Don't gloat, asshole," Sunnie grunted, punching Dio lightly with a small fist, "He gets it."

There was a quiet in the room as Jotaro took everything in. Of course the Foundation would have ways to figure out dimensional points of origin or whatever the hell it was… And this Dio did seem slightly different. Jotaro didn't spend that much time with the one he killed, but he had a feeling that that Dio wouldn't be tolerating Sunnie's casual demeanor towards him. Jotaro sat in the chair next to Mrs. Gupta's, sighing quietly as he mulled over the facts.

"Now, my dear," Dio said out of nowhere, turning to Sunnie, "Let me see them. Are they any better?"

Sunnie stiffened, shrinking inward. "Dio, not now. We have a guest here," she muttered, eyes darting to Jotaro for a split second.

"Come on. Show me," the vampire goaded as Mrs. Gupta sat forward in her seat, an arm propping itself on her leg so she could lean her chin on her hand.

"I'd like to see how they're doing as well, Sunnie," she said, "I have more work to attend to soon, so now is as good a time as any."

"Ugh, fine," Sunnie sighed dramatically, reaching her arms out as one hand reached over to the base of one sleeve. She slowly slid it upwards, revealing lightly freckled pale skin dotted with ugly yellowing bruises in various sizes. She then raised the other sleeve, showing the same there. Jotaro immediately gripped the arm of the chair hard enough to crunch it slightly.

"What the fuck did you do, Dio??"

"No, no, you got it wrong," Sunnie said quickly as Dio's clawed hands ran over her skin, his sharp brows furrowed. "He didn't… these aren't from him."

There was a tense silence as Dio inspected the injuries, and Mrs. Gupta looked at Jotaro with cold steel in her dark eyes.

"Her husband," she whispered, unable to conceal the disgust in her voice.

Oh.

…Oh.

"You know I can heal these, Sunshine," Dio murmured, "I healed Enrico, I can heal you–"

"The lawyer said we need to document how long it takes for them to heal," Catherine  said sternly, "It would be suspicious if they suddenly vanished."

"How are the ones on your back? Your legs?" Dio pressed.

She had them there, too? Jotaro's brows drew down over his eyes. No wonder she was wearing long clothes in the Texan heat. He had no idea this entire time, from the moment he saw her in Dallas til the moment that Dio had brought it up, that she was walking around with all of that on her body.

"I mean, still there? It'll take time," she grunted.

"May I see, darling?"

Sunnie scoffed. "I'm not taking my shorts and leggings off, asshole."

"Just the back, then?"

Sunnie heaved another sigh, and Jotaro heard her suck in a breath as she fully shrugged off her cardigan, revealing more skin covered in bruises and a few still-healing cuts on her upper left arm, splotches of reddish yellow littered around the slashed skin. She turned to face away from Dio and he slid the back of her loose sleeveless shirt up.

"Your hand is fucking cold," she said loudly, yelling the last word, but he just clicked his tongue.

"I still think you should have killed him," Dio growled, not paying any mind to her complaint. A snarl, one that Jotaro remembered from a long while ago, lifted the man's lip and he saw a glint of pronounced fang. "It would have been easy for you. Suffocate him, steal his breath, no one would know."

"You know I don't do that. I don't use Windy against people who can't defend themselves," the woman said quietly, but loud enough for Jotaro to hear.

"Even if she did, she'd have to have lived with that for the rest of her life," Mrs. Gupta added, leaning back against one arm of her chair, "She wasn't—isn't—in a mental state for that."

"She could have at least defended herself," Dio responded, the hard anger in his golden eyes fading to a strangely soft concern. It didn't look right on the man. This didn't seem like the Dio Jotaro had killed. The vampire's large, pale hand ran up the apparently very much injured expanse of Sunnie's back, causing her to hiss a little. "You didn't need to endure so much pain."

Jotaro never thought he'd agree with Dio. Dio was evil. Dio was a curse on his family. Dio tried to have him and his friends killed. Dio was a monster.

But seeing these bruises, some still dotted with purples and sickly reds, he couldn't help but agree.

Dio was right.

"I couldn't do that, Dio," she whispered, "He said I deserved it."

Jotaro felt his heart clench. She sounded broken. She had been so calm and composed and casual in all the short time that he'd known her. He'd seen her relative physical strength when she had lifted her mother's heavy school supplies with ease. She was a sturdy woman, and her smile seemed so natural, her laughter so easy.

But there she was: drawn in on herself, battered, and so, so small.

"And he was wrong," Catherine stood from her seat and walked to Sunnie's side, crouching down in front of her spot on the sofa and delicately placing a hand on her knee to comfort her. "And we'll keep drilling that into your head as much as you need, alright?"

Dio moved the hand on her back to her side, sliding up the shirt there, revealing a large, sharp splotched line that wrapped around her waist, like she had been thrown onto or pressed against a sharp-edged corner. Jotaro, at this point, had to duck his gaze behind the brim of his hat. That was too much for him, for some reason. It felt like he was invading her privacy, though she was being rather casual about her skin being on display.

"So, all of that…?" Jotaro muttered, not wanting to meet her eyes.

"Yeah," Sunnie said, glancing at him, "This is from… that asshole." She paused, before gesturing with her head towards Dio, "Not this asshole, though."

"How sweet of you," Dio chuckled, lowering the shirt and giving her good shoulder a soft pat. She quickly pulled the cardigan back on, drawing her legs toward her chest and averting her eyes.

"The Foundation is providing her with legal counsel and a therapist," Catherine said plainly, standing back to her full height and walking to the raised arm of the sofa, leaning against it, "As well as medical assistance when necessary. We're making sure she's well taken care of here."

"…And 'well taken care of' means she stays down here with him?" Jotaro asked, shooting an acidic glance towards Dio.

And Dio reacted with his first open display of displeasure with the Joestar: another snarl, and an incredibly insulted expression. "There is no safer place on this planet for her to be than with me," he growled, "On the off chance that the piece of shit decides to seek out and associate with unsavory types with Stand abilities to track her down, I am the best equipped to protect her."

"And why would I believe anything you say?" Jotaro stood suddenly, advancing on Dio.

To Jotaro's surprise, when Dio stood, he stepped in front of the woman on the sofa, as if he was trying to protect her. "You act like you know me, Jojo. Let me assure you that you don't."

"Alllllright, that's enough!" Sunnie exclaimed, jumping up and standing on the sofa, still not as tall as either Jotaro or Dio, "I'm done with the bullshit!!!! You!!!!" She pointed at Jotaro, "Getting angry at the situation changes nothing. Deal with it. And you!!!!" She smacked the back of Dio's head, "Quit being a shitgibbon. Calm down." She reached out and bunched the stretchy fabric of his skin-tight top in her small fist, and softly added, "...Please."

Dio looked back at her and once again, something about him seemed to soften.

"Of course, Sunshine," he said, his voice low and strangely kind as he sat back down on the sofa with her.

"Just tell me one thing," Jotaro said, voice level and low. Dio's amber eyes settled on him in a calculating gaze that would unnerve most people as Jotaro tried to find the right words. "The… me from where you're from. What happened to his mother?"

They stared at each other for what seemed like forever, both of their faces unreadable, before Dio spoke. "…After I managed to escape the fight in Cairo, he received news of his mother's death."

The clenching of Jotaro's fist was audible in the otherwise nearly dead-quiet room.

"I spent years on the run from the remaining Joestar group, those they added to their ranks, and the Foundation," Dio continued, "All I wanted to do was survive. Jotaro did not make it easy."

"Good," was all Jotaro could say, feeling a roiling mix of emotions in his chest. He stood, looking at Mrs. Gupta. "I'm done here."

"Alright then," she said, standing as well, "Sunnie?" The woman stared at her boss, eyes wide and blinking. "See us out?"

Sunnie nodded and got off the sofa, wincing as she flexed and stretched a little bit. Dio pouted again, tapping her calf with his foot, and she huffed. "I won't be long, dude. Chill."

Seemingly pleased with her answer, the man grinned smugly to himself before picking a book up off the table and settling against the arm of the sofa, flipping to some page midway through. He did, however, spare one last wary glance at Jotaro, who could have sworn he saw Dio's eyes flash a very vivid and untrusting crimson for a split second before he left the room with the two women.

"Sunnie," Jotaro said as soon as he was sure the door was fully closed, eyes and voice soft, "I need you to be wary around him."

"Yeah, I know," she laughed, but Jotaro shook his head firmly.

"I don't know if you understand, though," the Joestar muttered, "He has a way of… his words alone can sway a heart. He can capture minds and twist them."

Her wide grin dropped, and she gave him a strangely stoic and bitter look. "...Yeah. Trust me, I get it."

Mrs. Gupta placed her hand, long and elegant, on Sunnie's right shoulder, and she pulled her close in a light side hug. Jotaro sighed quietly—he couldn't imagine what Sunnie had been through, nor for how long, but figured that she, with the Foundation at her back, could handle herself.

"Sunnie?" The COO asked softly, offering her hand to the short woman. Sunnie quickly pulled out a pen from her pocket and began writing something on the lighter skin of Mrs. Gupta's palm, glancing at Jotaro a couple of times. Confused, but not wanting to intrude, Jotaro waited. When Sunnie was done, Mrs. Gupta looked at her hand and stifled a laugh, and Sunnie sent a mischievous little smirk Jotaro's way.

"Be seeing you, Jotaro," she said. He nodded to her, following Mrs. Gupta out of the first set of sliding doors. When the doors closed, she let out another little laugh.

"Sometimes she writes things on my hand that she doesn't want to say out loud, like if she wants a certain kind of food or another blanket," she said, showing him her palm.

It was a caricature of Jotaro's face, glowering, with the words 'grumpy mcgrumperson' underneath.

Well. Hm.

"She hid it well, didn't she?" Mrs. Gupta asked as soon as the second sliding door closed, voice light and strangely conversational, "All that pain she's in—mentally and physically."

"Too well," Jotaro muttered, and Mrs. Gupta nodded, sighing.

"We actually wouldn't have known about it if Dio hadn't smelled the blood from her shoulder, you know." Jotaro looked at her confusedly, and she continued, "She was hoping she'd just hide from her husband by sleeping in her car, but Dio insisted that she stay with him here. Now she splits time between the Foundation and her parents' house."

"And you just let that happen?"

They arrived in front of the elevator at the end of the hall, and Mrs. Gupta held her hand up to the scanner. When it beeped in acceptance, she pressed a couple of buttons and they waited for the door to open. "I understand that you don't trust him, as you've made so abundantly clear. But I have a reason for giving the go ahead for this. You're going to have to trust us."

The elevator opened and she stepped inside, Jotaro following before the door shut once more.

"...How are you sure that he's going to keep his word?"Jotaro asked, and Mrs. Gupta glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes for a moment before looking back ahead of them.

"Before I became COO, I worked in… outreach," she said, "I was tasked with finding other Stand users, both natural and unnatural. I've met quite a few people and… others with useful abilities that way."

Jotaro's eyes narrowed. "Is that how you rose in the ranks so quickly?"

She crossed her arms, a small but sly smile on her full lips. "I have goals, Dr. Kujo. I would be a fool if I didn't take the opportunity to use the resources available to me to achieve them. I'm sure you understand." The elevator door opened to a short hallway with softly glowing wall sconces, and she stepped out, motioning for him to follow. "Now, we can discuss more in my office. Come."

Jotaro felt himself deflate slightly—he was getting tired, his limit for dealing with people nearly reached for the day, but he did want to speak with her for a while without Dio around. So he followed, and shut the door behind himself.

To Be Continued...

[a-long-walk-in-the-forest]

Sasuke’s venus and ascendant degree exploration

I’ve done his moon, mercury and mars so far. I’m putting his venus and ascendant together because I’ve narrowed both of them down to 2 degrees. 

Venus (cancer):

4-5:

It indicates a person of warm affections, but incautious nature; who confides, without sufficient grounds, in those around him; and is apt to misplace his trust. To those of the female sex it is a baneful degree. In general1 it shows a loving and trustful nature without much knowledge of human weaknesses. It is apt to be bent, and perhaps broken, by the storms of passion, and to lean where there is no real support. It is a degree of BETRAYAL.

In this degree there is a Libra-like strain coming to light as love of justice and truth. The native will be friendly and will feel the need to lean on someone else. A loving-or even passionate and sensual- temper might give the male native many a headache, and might lead a woman into trouble. No adequate prudence balances the intensity of feelings. The native is better suited to win new friends than to keep the old ones and runs the risk of being seduced or easily deluded about the firmness of the ground on which to build his existence. In any event, there is an inordinate imagination and a misplaced confidence.Confronted with the unfairness and double-dealing of the world, the native’s a sense of justice will champ at the bit and rise in arms; he will call aloud for justice, will demand to have things straightened and facts revealed at any cost. Also, this rebellion will be naive, reckless, untimely and might even make things worse for the already deceived native, who is unfortunately not acted well enough with human baseness.

A just person, one whose mind will spontaneously detect a falsehood, or an injustice, or any wrong.

Medical ability; music (sense of hearing); sociable but touchy; interested in everyone and has power of intuition, which enables him to detect wrong, injustice, or falsity; tenth to twelfth ribs.

Denotes one who takes too much notice of reports and who ventures before he has obtained enough evidence as to the nature of his speculations. This tendency, unless checked, leads him to a land of famine instead of a land of plenty. It is a symbol of Pitfalls.

This degree of Cancer, Capricorn is said to have domain over the sense of hearing. These natives are usually sociable but touchy. Interested in everyone and has powers of intuition which enable him to detect wrong, injustice or falsity.

15-16:

It indicates a person of much tenacity and strength of purpose; who by dint of extreme power, whether physical or mental, will overcome his greatest and most terrible enemies. The native will have much to contend with in life, and will encounter many dangers; but, as indicated, will finally overcome them. Together with this native strength, there may be blended a softness and gentleness of manner, which may induce others to attempt an advantage over him; but those Philistine who may have this Samson out (shorn and eyeless though he be) to make sport with him will rue the day. It is a degree of CONQUEST.

An eagle holding a snake in its claws.This degree will grant courage, toughness, ready wit, inner and outer strength, a scheming and adroit mind, an intelligence that does not exclude cunning; in a word, all the makings of a great captain and the requirements for engaging in a successful battle. These traits will be enhanced by courteous manners, great tact and a good deal of tactical ability.The native’s foes will be his matches as far as gallantry and doggedness in fight goes, but will be unworthy of him for their unfairness and wickedness. A clue as to whether he will leave the battlefield as a conqueror or a loser may be drawn from his horoscope at large. But even in the latter case, his enemies will not be able to make him bite the dust.

Business; music; good at mathematics, writing, or making money; a fortunate degree; taciturn; blindness or defective eyesight; gastric nerves.

Denotes one who is entrusted with a high mission and who is deeply inspired, having a spirituality entirely serene. To him has the mandate “Co forth and teach the people” been echoed from the heavens. He will be granted power and influence, so that the people will hear him call. The evidences of this peculiar mission are made manifest in his twelfth year and mature between the twenty-fourth and thirty-sixth years. It is the symbol of the Inspired.

These people are versatile, good at figures, counting, economy and finance.

Ascendant (capricorn):

21-22:

This symbol belongs to one that is capable of arduous and protracted labors. His inherent force of character will carry him through all difficulties and beyond all obstacles. He is endowed with much definition of purpose, determination and incisiveness, so that he will make headway against all obstructions and cut out a line in life for himself. He will in all probability find the recompense of his labor in association with agricultural projects, and in the utilization of old and waste materials, It is a degree of DETERMINATION.

A man engaged in deep spade work. This image can be taken both literally and metaphorically. In the former sense it will point to a heavy, steady, drudging work; obviously this work will in all likelihood be mining, digging up archaeological remains, and the like. The latter construction of the symbol would by no means bar the former. It points to a sharp and piercing mind, to a profound spirit, eager to pry into the unknown, and perhaps to a fondness for mystery. According to the different temperaments, there can be a religious sense bent on the esoteric, the study of abstruse sciences like archaeology, dead languages, paleontology; or a strange, undecipherable, hermetic temperament. At any rate, either with his brawn or with his brain, the native will have to work hard; will be patient rather than stubborn, or vice versa, as the other factors purport. As to his tools, he will be an extremist in either sense, will either put up with the roughest, nerly antediluvian, equipment, or will exact the most up-to-date outfit modem technique has evolved. The obstacles to clear will be great, but he will face them courageously, and luck will smile upon such strength of character and such unflinching will.

A scholarly degree; active mind; persistent in his efforts; studies the past to guide him in his future; usually has more than one hobby; women with planets here are usually hard to understand; music; muscle endings.

Adventurous, reverent, philosophical Sagittarius influences this Cancer/Capricorn combination, adding mental foresight, curiosity, and love of travel - would make a wonderful teacher for adults or children. Also a writer with a sense of mystery and excitement. Capable of mastering foreign language and dialects and understands other cultures. Perhaps an archeologist or historian - fond of anything “old”. Physically fit, patient and capable of hard work, but somewhat of a one-track mind.

23-24:

This denotes a steadfast and capable person, whose life will be orderly and useful, whose mind will be open to the reception of truth and knowledge and whose passions will be well regulated. He will display a frank and even blunt nature, being free from all craftiness and subtlety; and his mind will have a sincere regard for all that is simple and natural in human nature, and a rooted distrust of the non-transparent. It is likely that he will be disposed to seek his livelihood in the vineyard or hostel, but in the highest capacity he can be will aspire to become a teacher and purveyor of spiritual truths. In any case he is a man of the common walk and his sympathies are with the people. It Is a degree of SINCERITY.

What one may incline to call a head. An eminently constructive brain, an intelligence open to truth and at the same time bent on things of practical use; a mind where, in spite of its manifold gifts, tidiness and order prevail. A leaning toward medicine, applied or pure, toward chemistry, physics, engineering, arts and crafts, for trade at large and the purchase and sale of wine and oil. Self-mastery, character, straightforwardness. The native is as good as his word, sturdy, unfaltering; as most sincere and open-hearted people, he lacks diplomacy and abhors what he cannot see through; he will break, not bend. Therefore, the earthen pot ought not to enter competition with pots of iron. A plebian temperament; simple tastes, sound instincts, heady passions, though curbed by will power, a leaning for the people, though the native strives to reach higher and higher to make headway. Either literally or metaphorically, the native may run the risk of drowning (in a stream or in debts); the chart as a whole will have to tell in which of the two senses the omen can be taken. One ought to bear in mind that the wheel is also whimsical Goddess Fortune’s tool.

A blunt, steadfast, and militant person; music; gastric ulcer; from upper to lower legs.

Aries with Leo with earthy, “direct” Capricorn expresses ambition, and energy to accomplish the most demanding tasks - often risking fortune and life along the way. Sincere and open-minded (can afford to be) but can’t understand why others would ever disagree with it plans and ideas. Why? It makes no sense, because a belief that it concise, correct planning is the best! But, no one is perfect; it’s an imperfect world. Must be tactful and diplomatic in order to continue its successes. Outdoor activities favored; politics or religion cannot be ruled out.

[nyc-uws]

Friends

My new old friend. An odd formulation. And yet….

The Hedgehog Review Wilfred M. McClay

I hadn’t ever considered the matter until a few years ago, when I heard a dreamy little number by the jazz pianist Alan Pasqua called “My New Old Friend.” It’s a strictly instrumental affair, a subdued and contemplative piano trio, full of subtle unresolved suspensions and wafting dissonances, conveying a late-night mood of solitary and slightly bittersweet remembrance—one of those moments of quiet grace when the passage of time slows to a crawl, past and present seem to intermingle, and joy and sorrow become hard to tell apart.

But it was the song’s title that captured my attention, even more than the music itself. My new old friend. An odd formulation. But one I’d been looking for, without even knowing it.

It’s not obvious to me why I should have been looking. In a different moment, I would have been far more likely to react against the phrase, striking it down with a reflex of indignant linguistic puritanism. After all, the noble term friend has already been so diluted and cheapened in our times, like so many of our most important words of personal and social connection, that it has become like the Platte River, a mile wide and an inch deep. Such cheapening has occurred not only in our personal usage but in public discourse. When Abraham Lincoln concluded his First Inaugural Address with a heartfelt plea to the seceding Southern states to recall that “we are not enemies, but friends,” the word had great emotive power, describing the very bonds of public affection that were being sundered. Such earnest usage has all but disappeared. Friend as we now use it embraces a particularly large portfolio of evasions and line-blurring maneuvers, especially useful in the hands of diffident teenagers, as in this familiar exchange: Mother: “Who was that on the phone?” Daughter: “A friend.”

As this example illustrates, friend can designate anything from a mysterious or otherwise uncategorizable love interest to a study-group classmate to a business associate to a helpful neighbor to the “friends” who accumulate on people’s social media accounts, where they are as plentiful and enduring as the daily harvest of low-tide sea shells on a beach. The television series Friends (1994–2004) became one of the most successful sitcoms in TV history by depicting a collection of very attractive twenty- and thirtysomethings “hanging out” together as a kind of quasi-family, a light and frothy fantasy that transposed the social life of the college dorm to not-quite-adult life in implausibly toney Manhattan apartments. For its characters, friendship was that relatively flexible and easygoing state of social relations before the hardening categories of adulthood come along.

This resonated with American audiences, including aging boomers who were nostalgic for the friendships of their college days. But when we’re confronted with the far profounder ideas about friendship put forward by Aristotle, the greatest of all writers on the subject, or by C.S. Lewis in his splendid account in The Four Loves, we tend to be nonplussed. Such heights seem beyond us. For Lewis, Friends would have to be considered a show about companions, not friends, since friendship is something weightier and inherently exclusive. In this, Lewis was in tune with the earlier observations of Aristotle: “Great friendship too can only be felt towards a few people…. One cannot have with many people the friendship based on virtue and on the character of our friends themselves, and we must be content if we find even a few such.” Far from being something breezy and easy, like a glass of sparkling spring wine, friendship in the fullest sense is a rare and precious thing, much more like an old single-malt Scotch.

As I’ve said, the Platte River principle has come to apply to many of our words of human connection, perhaps partly reflecting the automatic generosity of the democratic spirit, and also the way we employ the language of false personalization in our speech, routinely appropriating the most charged words in doing so. Some of this is vaguely sinister, as when corporate bosses try to persuade us to think of ourselves as part of “the Sprocket Corporation family,” especially at times when the budget needs cutting. Community is a word that comes in for similar abuse, and has been almost emptied of meaning in this respect, standing for any aggregation that it is politically or financially useful to treat as an aggregate. Here, as in the use of the language of family and almost any other affective term, Silicon Valley has led the way to perdition.

So you can see why I would be initially averse to the idea of “new old friends,” which might sound at first like more linguistic inflation, the equivalent of preripped jeans or “distressed” furniture, something new that is made out to look old, and thus is doubly phony. To make matters worse, as my old friends can readily confirm, I have for years been prone to saying, in an earnest imitation of Shakespeare’s Polonius, that “you can always make new friends, but you can never make new old friends.” And it’s true. There is something irreplaceably special about the people who have been down the road with you—those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried—and whose friendship has endured through the sheer passage of years, through the steady artillery of time, even if such friendships lack the lively intensity of newer ones. People who “knew you when” can never be replaced, and a wise person will not seek to do so.

But such friendships have their limitations. For one thing, it’s not always helpful to be reminded constantly of who you were “then.” Life does move on. And there is also something very true in the Simon and Garfunkel song “Old Friends,” about the two men who “Sat on their park bench like bookends…. / Winter companions… / Lost in their overcoats / Waiting for the sunset…. / Memory brushes the same years / Silently sharing the same fear.” There is a bond being described, if an unutterably sad and resigned one. It is an existential bond of the deepest and most universal sort. But there are some respects in which this “old friendship” falls short of the fullness of friendship as Aristotle and Lewis describe it.

And here I come to the heart of the matter: There is no denying the phenomenon of a new old friend. I have acquired a couple of them in recent years, people with whom I have found a near-instant bond whose depth is hard to explain, whose friendship feels as old and rooted as an ancient sequoia, even though I know it is as new as a sapling. Moving about in such friendships, I’m wary at first, thinking they may be too good to be true, fearing to trust too much in the sensation of oldness, fearing, much as one fears when living in a foreign culture, that my habitual ways of being will suddenly be misperceived or strike the wrong note. There is something deeply mysterious about such friendships, and mystery induces caution, as well as awe.

But perhaps the mystery has to do with the mystery of friendship itself. Lewis remarks that what finally hold us together as friends are not the “unconcerning things,” facts of biography and shared experiences. Of course, one brings the residue of all such things to the activity of friendship. But the friendship itself stands apart from such things. It concerns itself, Lewis argues, with nothing less than a shared quest for the truth about things. In the very act of sharing in this one thing, friends gain access to an astonishing degree of freedom. “In a circle of true Friends,” Lewis insists, “each man is simply what he is: stands for nothing but himself”:

That is the kingliness of Friendship. We meet like sovereign princes of independent states, abroad, on neutral ground, freed from our contexts. This love (essentially) ignores not only our physical bodies but that whole embodiment which consists of our family, job, past and connections.

Friendship represents a rare kind of freedom, an “exquisite arbitrariness and irresponsibility,” as Lewis puts it, precisely because it liberates us into a way of being fully human that rises above all the desiderata and conditioning factors that otherwise impinge upon us, the very factors that form what we are now accustomed to call our “identity.” But why shouldn’t an entirely new friendship have that power, as much as an old one has? Or perhaps…even more, since it is no longer the facts, but rather the search, the quest, that the new old friends share?

Lewis was not alone in connecting the disinterested love of truth and goodness with the highest forms of friendship. “The real community of man,” wrote Allan Bloom in The Closing of the American Mind, “in the midst of all the self-contradictory simulacra of community, is the community of those who seek the truth, of the potential knowers, that is, in principle, of all men to the extent they desire to know.” Bloom, too, understood that the quest for truth is what unites us most deeply and most reliably. The greatness of the Great Books, in his view, was their ability to lift our minds and thoughts out of the realm of contingency and “fact,” into a realm higher and more essential, more conducive to the flourishing of friendship—not as a goal of the quest, but as a byproduct of it.

Maybe this way of phrasing it will sound too specific to the academic world. And not everyone has the time or inclination to reread Plato’s Republic every few months (preferably in Greek). But the larger truth, that the deepest friendship can take root in the sparsest biographical soil if some high and shared animating spirit is present, seems right. I’m guessing that’s how we make new old friends. Though in the end, it is a mystery.

Wilfred M. McClay is G.T. and Libby Blankenship Chair in the History of Liberty and director of the Center for the History of Liberty at the University of Oklahoma. His latest book is Land of Hope: An Invitation to the Great American Story (2019).

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/friends

[antiquechampagne]

Antique Champagne - CH39 - Turning Up the Heat

Payne was surprised the man sitting across the table was not sweating bullets, given both herself and Fahrenheit were glaring menacingly at him. The ease with which he sat and talked, confidently expounding each chem he pulled individually from an oversized cooler placed at his heels, spoke to his gift for words that rivaled Hancock’s in pure effortless charisma. The idiom ‘selling maple syrup to a Canuck’ stuck in Payne’s head, even though she hated that prewar turn of phrase.

Payne studied his travel-stained clothes and honeyed words, searching for anything out of place or ingenuine. From his hole-riddled boots to messily patched trench coat, he seemed every bit the road-weary trader he claimed to be… even if no one had ever seen him before.

“So, Bryan,” Hancock rested his chin on his fist, surveying the goods laid before him. “You’ve got a decent range of chems here, both medicinal and recreational, but why should Goodneighbor strike a deal with you? You must be pretty new to these parts. I’ve never heard of you. Who exactly are you selling for? What makes these chems better than what we can make ourselves?”

Bryan grinned, a wide shit eating smile. “Listen to this guy!” he turned as if to joke with Fahr, who was having none of it. “Who am I selling for?! Who am I selling for?” He leaned forward on his elbows. “I am selling for you! From what I hear, you guys are hurting for chems. We wouldn’t want a real shortage to make waves in this good-ol’ party town. Second, my supplier is an up an’ comer in the chem trade but the eggheads got lotsa ideas, shit that is bleeding edge!” He darted his eyes around the room. “Things like this little baby right here…” He pulled a Jet canister out of a pocket, but this one had a light-yellow band circumscribed around the dusty red canister.

“This ain’t your momma’s Jet!” He placed it down on the table before the Mayor. “And don’t mistake this for your everyday Ultrajet, either. It’s something brand new.” Hancock picked up the palm-sized inhaler, inspecting it as the man prattled on. “This little lady doesn’t even have a name yet, that’s how new she is… but she’s got a smoother, longer high than anything else out there. Great for blasting through those tough patches in life, if you know what I mean.” Hancock shook it next to his ear, listening to the liquid inside before setting it down on the table.

Bryan leaned back, spreading his arms wide on the back edge of the couch. “Now, I won’t say the formula is perfect yet, it’s got a nasty aftertaste… and it’s difficult to produce. That’s why I only have a few canisters ready for sale… but I’m the only one in the whole Commonwealth who has any. In fact, you are the first person I’ve had the pleasure of showing her to.”

“So no one else in the ‘Wealth has tried it?” Hancock pointedly asked, a naked brow arching.

“Like I said… no one outside the lab has any idea that she even exists.” Bryan absently twirled a strand of his long greasy hair. Payne wondered if he had found a cache of hair grease somewhere and slathered his head with every jar, given how saturated his hair looked. At least, she hoped it was some product and not something else.

The Mayor picked up the chem, quizzically examining it again. “I only let in chems I’ve personally tested.”

“Sure thing, boss… you can have my whole supply,” he leaned in and stuck out a hand, “If we have a deal.”

Hancock eyed him over once before grinning, shaking his right hand while keeping the new chem with his left. The deal struck, the inhaler quickly found its way to his lips and he took a generous hit. Immediately he coughed.

“Damn, that tastes like ass!” he spat.

“Told you it needs some work in the flavor department. Just give’er a moment.”

Hancock’s grimace turned to a gradual light, smirk as he sunk back into the couch cushions. “There it is…” With a little chuckle he turned to Fahr. “Fahr, can you take our new friend downstairs and work out the details, please. Clear my schedule, this little lady and I are going to need some time to get intimately acquainted.”

Fahr nodded, motioning to the door.

Bryan gestured to the cache of chems on the table. “I’ll just leave these here, if you don’t mind. I’m sure they will find a good home.” He got up and followed Fahr out the door.

“You going to be okay, Boss?” Payne asked.

“Oh yeah, I’m going to be just fine. I think I’m going to retire for a bit.” He stood up and started to walk across the hall to his bedroom. “Why don’t you avail yourself to the shower? Get all freshened up after last night. The hot water should do you some good.”

Payne was about to decline, but she realized that he was right. The night had been particularly stressful. A hot shower would indeed help ease her nerves.

“You know, that does sound good,” she agreed.

With a tip of his hat, Hancock disappeared into his bedroom.

Back in her room, Payne gathered the things she needed to shower. She picked up each item almost robotically. Clothes. Towel. Hairbrush. Toothpaste. On her way back upstairs, something started to take shape on the edges of her mind. As she closed the creaking door, a thought niggled in the shadows of the bathroom mirror. She stared silently at her reflection as she let her hair down and stripped to her tank top. The constant lazy drip from the makeshift showerhead hitting the galvanized water trough turned tub grated her nerves.

What is it? She frowned at herself. Focusing, she reran meeting Bryan through her mind. He easily schmoozed with everyone, seemingly completely at ease in a place he had never been. Granted, Goodneighbor tended to be a welcoming place, given you did not underestimate the inherent danger of the town. But that wasn’t it. She moved on to the end of the deal.

In her mind Bryan sat there, cool as a mutfruit, shaking the Mayor’s hand full of smiles and twirling his greasy hair. His eyes followed Hancock, never leaving him, his fingers twisting his hair. They didn’t stop until the Jet inhaler left his lips.

He was nervous! He wanted… needed… to see Hancock to take a hit.

WHY?

Unnerved, Payne turned and padded across the hall. She didn’t know the why, but she had to tell Hancock about this. As she reached up to knock on the peeling wooden door, she heard a crash.

“Boss?”

Nothing.

“Hancock?” Payne pushed open the door. There, on the floor, she saw Hancock laying face down in a crumpled heap. Before she could move, the first thing to hit her was the smell, a wall of putrid fruit.

“JOHN!”

Rushing to his side, she turned him over, finding him covered in frothy purple-tinged vomit, his eyes rolled back in his skull. Even through his long coat, she could feel the heat radiating off him. Immediately she began stripping him out of what clothes she could, sweat pooling and dripping down his clammy scalding skin.

“I NEED SOME HELP UP HERE!” she called out. His shirt and coat removed, she picked him up. He was too hot, almost boiling alive in his skin. She had to get him cool. As she reached the hallway, she heard boots pounding up the stairs, two watchmen racing up.

She issued ordered without halting her steps. “You: don’t let that dealer leave. You: get Amari. NOW!”

Payne crossed into the bathroom and gently put the unconscious ghoul on the floor, his limbs twitching sporadically. “Stay with me, John,” she whispered.

She turned the shower with the cold water on full blast, carrying Hancock’s overheating body under the stream. Quickly, Payne realized that his lifeless figure could easily slip under the water. Pulling him on top of her, she slid into the tub, holding him under the icy-cold water and his head up and away from the spray. Repositioning her own tense body slightly, Payne sat in such a way to occlude the drain, causing the water level to begin to rise up the sides of the trough.

Payne didn’t hear the footsteps over the gushing showerhead. Luckily, Dr. Amari’s distinctive infuriated voice preceded her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as she stepped through the bathroom’s threshold.

“Something’s wrong. He’s burning up, bad,” Payne answered.

Sliding to her knees next to the tub, Amari quickly examined Hancock. She recoiled slightly as Hancock started to shake before releasing another deluge of fragrant vomit.

“He sampled some kind of new Jet.” Payne struggled to keep her employer’s head from slipping under the spray, her extremities starting to go numb for the cold.

Amari nodded. “This appears to be escalating quickly. We need to stop his body from reacting to whatever is causing this, or there will be nothing left to save.” Her face was grim. “Addictol. Where is it?”

As succinctly as she could, Payne described the location of Hancock’s reserve stash of the powerful anti-addiction drug. Returning with the innocuous looking inhaler, Amari again kneeled beside the soaking wet pair.

“I’m going to need you to assist.” Payne nodded. Amari readied the canister. “Hold his head still and cover his sinuses as best you can. We need to keep as much of this in his system as we can.” She grimaced. “The body’s reaction is going to be immediate, possibly violent.”

Payne adjusted her grip, steadying herself for what was to come. She had never seen the results of a dose of Addictol, but she knew its reputation. Amari’s warning proved prudent; the inhaler was barely out of his mouth when fierce muscle spasms wracked Hancock’s body, causing him to thrash wildly in the metal tub. In short order, his body, aided by the drug, began expelling anything foreign in his system via the fastest route.

Once the worst was over, Amari checked his vitals again. She reached over and turned the water off, his fever breaking. Nearly without words, the two worked in unison to strip Hancock out of his sodden and soiled clothes, laying him on the bathroom floor. Payne wrapped him in the towel and clothes she had brought for her own shower, looking to Amari for guidance.

“He’s not out of the woods yet. I need to examine him more thoroughly. Who knows what kind of damage may have already been done.”

Payne thought for a moment. “Go. Have whoever is nearby hold open every door from here to the Den. Tell people to stay out of the way. I’ll give you a minute’s head start. After that, I’m getting him to you as fast as I can.” Payne would get Hancock to Amari’s lab and she didn’t give a shit about anything or anybody in between.

Amari nodded and left. Silently, Payne counted, shivering and dripping in the claustrophobic bathroom. Nothing about Hancock’s prone body changed as she finished. Gently, she lifted him off the floor, securely holding his warm body against hers before sprinting full bore down the stairs and into the street. The town passed by her in a blur.

Bursting through the open doors of the Memory Den, Payne stopped just feet from Irma who let out a small gasp. She had been pacing behind the doctor when Payne appeared holding a nearly naked Hancock.

“Down here,” Amari commanded, not skipping a beat. Payne followed her down into the basement. As she walked, she tried her best to ignore the blisters and cracks flowering on her uncovered face and shoulders. It was a strange sensation; her clothes were still icy cold from the water but the sunburn seared across her skin.

As Amari opened the door, she motioned to a large couch along the wall. “Put him here while I get the machine ready.”

From in front of a terminal, Curie’s shining white chassis whirled around. “Oh, mon Dieu! What has happened?”

“That is what we are going to find out.” Amari stated. “I may need your assistance. Your knowledge of organic chemistry and drug synthesis may come in very handy soon, but right now, I need to examine Hancock.”

“Of course!” Curie buzzed optimistically. “I will go and procure appropriate accommodations for Monsieur Hancock.”

Payne stepped back, allowing the doctor to work. Amari toiled away swiftly calibrating some contraption while taking fastidious notes as she went over the events that lead to Payne discovering Hancock on the floor. Payne’s heart seemed like it would burst through her chest. She felt completely useless, standing idly in the corner, relegated to only watching and waiting. The only time she could help was when Amari asked her to move Hancock to the glass covered lounger so she could examine his brain activity. The very thought that something might have damaged his brain made Payne internally recoil.

Soon Curie returned with Irma and Kent in tow. The pair managed to manhandle an old hospital gurney down the stairs and into the room. The time seemed to move agonizingly slow, especially since Payne could do nothing to help.

After a while, Amari took notice. “We can take it from here, Payne. There’s not much for you to do for now.” Payne didn’t move. Amari put down her clipboard. “Payne?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Payne stated very matter-of-factly.

Amari rubbed the bridge of her nose. After a moment, she motioned to a folding chair resting in the corner. “At least sit down. We need to work on him.”

Taking the hint, Payne walked over. Just before she reached out, she heard heavy boots on the stairs and turned around defensively. Rushing through the door, Fahrenheit looked around, her stony face etched with stress.

“Doctor.” Her address Amari was more of a demand than a greeting.

“I don’t know anything yet. I’ll update you as soon as I can.”

“That dealer? Did you find him? What did he say?” Payne asked.

“Of course, I found him.” She angrily scoffed. “I found him in an alley after he decided to eat a 38 from his own pistol, the slimy fucker.”

Payne’s thought shifted. “Anything on him? Could you tell where he came from?”

“Like what? You think was he carrying a fucking calling card? He had jack squat.”

“What about the caravan guards?”

“They are detained, but they say they were hired from Bunker Hill. We’ll double check if that is true.”

Payne digested the info. “Make sure to gather up any of the chems this guy had. Lock’em up and post a guard. We have no idea if any or all of the chems are contaminated with something. We don’t need any townsfolk to carry some off. The doctor will need some for testing too.”

“Good thinking!” Curie piped up. “It would be extremely advantageous to be able to test any substances that may have been administered to Monsieur Hancock that lead to this condition.”

Fahr nodded in agreement. She looked expectantly to Payne.

“You wanna get going on that?” Fahr urged, pointing with her thumb to the door.

“No.” Payne stated simply. Payne stood and crossed her arms.

“What?”

“I’m not leaving him.”

Fahr rolled her eyes. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. Take a hike. That’s not a suggestion.”

Payne stayed rooted in place. She may as well have been welded to the floor. “No. I’m not letting him out of my sight. Not until he’s up and around again.”

Fahr started to argue, but it was Amari who cut in. “Payne, we have no idea what kind of shape his brain is in, let alone the rest of his body. With the Addictol coursing through him, we can’t even administer a Stimpak. Whatever his recovery might look like, it is going to be a long one.”

“Then I’ll wait.” Payne grabbed the folding chair and sat, ignoring the colorful insults hurled at her from an enraged Fahrenheit.

Amari finally snapped, her nerves worn thin. “Listen! I don’t care what you two do! Either get out or shut up… unless you don’t want the mayor to wake up!”

Curie stepped in, trying to cool things down. “Madame Fahrenheit, from what I have observed, may I suggest you take over the daily tasks of the mayoral office? You seem the best suited for such a job.”

Fahr glared furiously at Payne, but conceded to Curies point. “Fine, sit your lazy ass down here forever for all I care. It’s not like you could handle running this place anyway!”

“Maybe,” interjected Curie “If we sent word to Monsieur Nate, he would surely be willing to lend a helping hand. He has accumulated quite the impressive resume when it comes to the organizing and administration of settlements.”

Fahrenheit huffed, but agreed. Before leaving Fahr stepped closer to Payne and leaned in. “If anything happens to him while you’re down here, it’s your head on the block.”

[thecoleopterawithana]

Hello! I really adore your blog and all the work you put into it! It's well appriciated. Anyways, a real question - how do you feel about Paul and Jane's relationship? Because it confuses me on so many levels. I find it very hard to believe she didn't know about his many affairs while they were together, yet the public reason for their break up is his adultery with Francie who denied that (I mean who even reported that?). 1/3

The other thing that confuses me is the fact that he was writing basically break up songs (but I didn’t register a lot of love there tbh) back in 66 and they somehow managed to last until 68, even though they totally didn’t give the impression of a good match (her ambition and his desire for housewife/bachelor life) nor did they seem as if they loved each other very much (at least publically).

The last part of the question, are you aware of a love song he wrote for her? I know some people think Here There and Everywhere but her brother apparently disagrees. Anyways, these are just my feelings and idk if I am not under a wrong impression here or something. I also don’t want it to sound like I am theoretizing here about it being a cover up for mclennon - because I am not! I think of it more as a publicity stunt for publicity…

…(even though I think it evolved into that over the course of time and it began more like Paul showing off with this pretty actress he managed to woo). What do you think? Thank you for your answer and sorry for the lenght, haha! R. 😎

Hey there! Thank you so much for the ask and a million apologies for taking so long to answer! It’s just that I had no opinion to speak of, at the time. 

I was just beginning to attempt getting a grasp on Paul– and to better comprehend my main interest of Lennon/McCartney– and hadn’t branched into the other people in his life yet. But to reach a true understanding, it is crucial to look at the full picture; and Jane was very much part of that picture, during a long and formative time!

Now, I must warn you that I’m nowhere near a Jane Asher connoisseur! This post comes with the disclaimer that I don’t feel adequately informed to answer it. But you asked, and it has been sitting in my inbox long enough, so… take my personal opinions for what they (always) are: honest (but probably flawed) attempts at understanding the emotional workings of human beings, based on the information available to me at the time. 

But because I feel like there is more information out there that I just didn’t find in the targeted research for this post, I urge more knowledgeable fans to give their contributions and/or correct me if I make some factual mistake. 

So, disclaimer given, here’s the actual answer:

I understand and empathize with your confusion regarding their relationship. I think it’s just a feeling that arises from the lack of information. After all, theirs was a relationship under intense public scrutiny from the very beginning, but whose actual inner workings were kept – through the effort of both parties – determinately private and personal. That’s always how Paul prefered it. And, effectively demonstrated by her resolute silence since, so has Jane. 

The main feeling I get from Paul and Jane is that they were both incredibly similar people, who also had somewhat separate interests. And this seems to have been both what attracted them to one another, and what eventually made them grow apart. 

Both of them were very socially adept; “good mixers”. Brian Sommerville (the Beatles’ publicity manager from 1963-1964) describes Jane as “a very sweet, extroverted girl […] bright, very conversational and full of fun”. This kind of sounds like Paul at his most gregarious. 

They were incredibly intelligent. And if Jane was cultured and knowledgeable, Paul was intensely curious, and soon became cultured and knowledgeable himself. And Paul himself openly admits that he was always attracted to “intelligent and talented people”. 

And we must acknowledge that the Asher’s lifestyle as a whole was something that captivated Paul (enough to have him literally move in with them as soon as he could). It had been instilled into him from early on, after all, this great appreciation for education and the drive to do better and rise out of his circumstances. 

[My parents] aspired to a better life. That idea that we had to get out of here, we had to do better than this. This was okay for everyone else in the street but we could do better than this. She was always moving to what she saw as a better place to bring her kids up.

[…]

My parents aspired for us, very much indeed. That is one of the great things you can find in ordinary people. My mum wanted me to be a doctor. ‘My son the doctor’ - and her being a nurse, too. No problem there. And my dad, who left school at fourteen, would have loved me to be a great scientist, a great university graduate. I always feel grateful for that. I mean, God, I certainly fulfilled their aspirations, talk about overachieving! That was all bred into me, that.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

People call Paul a “social climber” to demean him; and because the term is used to attack him, others defend him by saying his relationship with Jane had nothing to do with social climbing. But I don’t think this should be derogatory in the first place! 

Paul was ambitious; he did want to gain a higher social status. Not because he felt that made him inherently better than others; he’d just been raised to feel a sense of responsibility for being the best that he could be, and not live in poverty anymore! And what’s wrong with that, I’d like to know? 

All the Beatles wanted success, fame and status, so all of them were social climbers, in a sense. 

So what if one of the things that attracted Paul to Jane was that she was educated and cultured? It seems like a perfectly valid reason to be genuinely into someone to me.

Of course, both of them were beautiful. As Tony Barrow (the Beatles’ press officer) put it: “There was something about seeing them together that was magical. With those two gorgeous faces and all that incredible charisma, they looked like a couple of Greek gods.”  So the physical attraction was also obviously there.

And I don’t doubt that Paul was proud to have such a beautiful, talented and interesting person as a girlfriend, and might have felt like showing her off to friends. But I don’t think that lessens how enamoured they were with one another. If the whole relationship was being performed for outwards appreciation, I feel like there’d be a lot more performing going on. Instead, they never revealed more than they needed to, nor did they stop living to hide from the public eye. 

If there publicity strategies to it, they never came from Brian Epstein himself, who actually thought that the Beatles having girlfriends was a marketing mistake:

There was a considerable difference of opinion over the Jane Asher situation. Brian made a terrible fuss about it, saying that it would offend the fans. But, in effect, Paul just told him to mind his own business. Brian was probably just being over-cautious, and Paul more far-sighted, knowing that that sort of thing didn’t matter. But at the time it was a textbook rule of publicity that the artist must appear single and available.

— Brian Sommerville, in Chris Salewicz’s McCartney (1986).   

So the relationship wasn’t arranged as a publicity stunt. I feel like everything points to them just genuinely liking each other. 

(And now just an honest question to those of you who’ve been longer in the fandom: is George’s relationship with Pattie Boyd also suspected to be a publicity stunt? Because I don’t know if this has just escaped my notice, or if this claim is something that afflicts only Paul and Jane specifically. And if so, why do you think that is?)

But going back to their similarities, both Jane and Paul were incredibly independent, self-assured and work-oriented. And I think it was the clash of their strong personalities that actually caused the bumps in the relationship. 

Paul likes to be in control of himself and to some extent the environment around him. And he’d grown up in a society where it was acceptable for that to extend to his girlfriends. 

John and I lusted after Brigitte Bardot in our teen yearsand tried to make our girlfriends look like her. […] I had a girlfriend called Dot, Dorothy Rohne, who was my steady girlfriend forquite a long time in Liverpool. She and John’s girlfriend, later wife, CynthiaPowell, came over to Hamburg and I remember buying her a leather skirt andencouraging her to grow her hair long so she’d look like Brigitte.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997). 

Jane, of course, wasn’t willing to be moulded so easily.

That’s typical Paul [wanting me to stay inside the George V Hotel with the band instead of going out by myself to see Paris]. It’s just so silly of me to stay at the hotel. It’s just that he’s so insecure. For instance, he keeps saying he’s not interested in the future, but he must be because he says it so often. The trouble is, he wants the fans’ adulation and mine too. He’s so selfish, it’s his biggest fault. He can’t see that my feelings for him are real and that the fans’ are fantasy. Of course, it’s the trouble with all boys.

—Jane Asher, c/o Michael Braun, Love Me Do!: The Beatles’ Progress. (1964)

This little passage shows us Jane’s insights into the “darker” sides of Paul’s character that other’s wouldn’t often see. His insecurities: fear that Jane would betray him, anxieties about the future and his need to be liked. And this level of understanding shows either an incredible perceptiveness and emotional intelligence on Jane’s part, or it is another sign of how close they were and how well they knew each other. 

That Paul was understood like that by another person is extremely important! As he was reported saying after their breakup in 1968: 

Jane wasn’t just my woman, she was my closest friend. I’ve told her everything inside me. She knows what makes me tick down to things that happened as a kid. I went right through all the stuff about my mother dying and how I dealt with that. With Jane, I could just relax completely and be myself and that seemed to be what she wanted. With the other women, I’m a fucking millionaire rock star who just happens to be about as shallow as a puddle.

—in Alistair Taylor’s With the Beatles (2003).

Or just before that, as observed during the extensive interviews for the Beatles’ authorized biography, in 1967:

[Paul’s] life is much quieter and more ordered now. Paul is very communicative about himself, unlike the others. He talks everything over with Jane. She knows what he’s thinking.

— in Hunter Davies’ The Beatles (1968).

And I can’t stress enough how significant it is that Paul was open in such a way! It just shows how much he respected and trusted Jane. 

And I think she also trusted him. With this I don’t mean to say that she trusted him not to sleep around; I don’t believe for a minute she didn’t know about it. And because she doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of person who would endure it if she was actually betrayed and hurt by this, my personal opinion is that this was a given; something known and accepted between them. And probably not just one-way either. They spent long periods apart, after all, and I think both Paul and Jane had agreed between themselves that it was okay to have affairs. I don’t know exactly the specifics of it, or if this was revoked when they got engaged. 

But I don’t think that was the (main) reason the engagement was called off either.

It is clear they enjoyed the other’s company, from the amount of time they spent on outings and holidays alone together. But both also seem rather uncompromising in respects to their personal careers, and that probably lead to clashes. During 1965 they spend a lot of time apart when Jane pursues her acting career in Bristol Old Vic company.

My whole existence for so long centred around a bachelor life. I didn’t treat women as most people do. I’ve always had a lot around, even when I’ve had a steady girl. My life generally has always been very lax, and not normal.

I knew it was selfish. It caused a few rows. Jane left me once and went off to Bristol to act. I said OK then, leave, I’ll find someone else. It was shattering to be without her.

— Paul McCartney, in Hunter Davies’ The Beatles (1968).

Paul’s frustrations were exercised through ‘We Can Work It Out’ and ‘I’m Looking Through You’:

I wrote quite a lot of stuff up in that room actually [in Jane Asher’s family home]. I’m Looking Through You I seem to remember after an argument with Jane. There were a few of those moments. […]

As is one’s wont in relationships, you will from time to time argue or not see eye to eye on things, and a couple of the songs around this period were that kind of thing. This one I remember particularly as me being disillusioned over her commitment. She went down to the Bristol Old Vic quite a lot around this time. Suffice to say that this one was probably related to that romantic episode and I was seeing through her façade. And realising that it wasn’t quite all that it seemed. I would write it out in a song and then I’ve got rid of the emotion. I don’t hold grudges so that gets rid of that little bit of emotional baggage. I remember specifically this one being about that, getting rid of some emotional baggage. ‘I’m looking through you, and you’re not there!’

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

You’re thinking of me the same old wayYou were above me, but not todayThe only difference is you’re down thereI’m looking through you and you’re nowhere

Why, tell me why, did you not treat me right? Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight

I’m looking through you, where did you go I thought I knew you, what did I know You don’t look different, but you have changedI’m looking through you, you’re not the same

Paul was especially shaken by this episode when it became apparent that she might actually leave him for her other boyfriend:

I remember more one time when she was working at the Bristol Old Vic and she’d got a boyfriend in Bristol and was going to leave me for him. That was wildly traumatic, that was ‘Uhhhh!’ Total rejection!

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

So to lead a better life, Paul needs his love to be here, but Jane was pursuing her own dreams:

Jane loved acting and Jane loved Paul, but she wasn’t about to give one up for the other. […] Of all the plum roles that had come her way, the Subservient Beatles Woman was the only one Jane Asher refused to play. […] She had too much going for her to take a backseat to anyone, much less her mate. From the beginning, Paul had a hard time keeping up with her. Jane’s diary, which she lived by, was a clutter of fascinating appointments and social commitments. “I was amazed by the diary,” Paul admitted. “I’ve never known people who stuffed so much into a day.” There were auditions, meetings with television and movie producers, vocal lessons, acting classes, fittings, gallery debuts, screenings, recitals, opening nights. […] “Paul was clearly in awe of her,” says Peter Brown. 

— in Bob Spitz’s The Beatles: The Biography (2005).

And though they both loved culture and the swinging London scene, Jane wasn’t into all the drugs or the rock-n’-roll world. So when they moved together to Cavendish in March 1966, their slightly different social circles often didn’t mix well.

At Wimpole Street, he and Jane had kept their social lives mainly separate. At Cavendish, she naturally wanted to entertain her theatre friends, and the mix of luvvies and rockers could sometimes be awkward. One evening when she had some fellow actors to dinner, Paul arrived home with John, who–whether the result of drink or pot or just plain Lennonness–was at his most maliciously provocative. When one of the actresses at the table nervously requested an ashtray, he knelt beside her and facetiously offered one of his nostrils for the purpose. Jane, with her usual sangfroid, simply extended a foot and pushed him over.

— in Phillip Norman’s Paul McCartney: The Biography (2016).

On this same month, during a skiing holiday in Switzerland, Paul writes ‘For No One’.

It was very nice and I remember writing 'For No One’ there.I suspect it was about another argument. I don’t have easy relationships withwomen, I never have. I talk too much truth.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

It’s interesting to me that Paul’s problem in his relationship with women is “talking too much truth”. But by the lyrics in the song, we see that once again Paul is struggling with Jane’s self-reliance and her perceived lack-of-interest for him (which I also find endlessly ironic):

She wakes up, she makes upShe takes her time and doesn’t feel she has to hurryShe no longer needs you

You want her, you need herAnd yet you don’t believe her when she says her love is deadYou think she needs you

You stay home, she goes outShe says that long ago she knew someone but now he’s goneShe doesn’t need him

Your day breaks, your mind achesThere will be times when all the things she said will fill your headYou won’t forget her

And in her eyes you see nothingNo sign of love behind the tearsCried for no oneA love that should have lasted years!

The next big separation comes in 1967, when Jane goes on a tour of the US for the first five months of the year. This was, of course, a time of tectonic changes within the Beatles and in Paul’s life. 

When I came back after five months, Paul had changed so much. He was on LSD which I hadn’t shared. I was jealous of the spiritual experiences he’d had with John.

—Jane Asher, in Hunter Davies’ The Beatles (1968).

It must have been extremely disorientating to come back to the tripping, summer-of-love, looking-for-the-Meaning Paul. But to their credit, they did try to get to know one another again; reconnect:

On Jane’s return from America, she and Paul made a last-ditch stand to consolidate their relationship. Jane, unusually, even accompanied Paul to a recording session on 20 July 1967 […] Two days after the session, Jane accompanied Paul to Greece with the other Beatles. In August Jane was with him on the trip to Bangor to be initiated by the Maharishi, and during the difficult days following Brian’s death she was clearly a great source of strength and comfort to him; someone familiar and safe he could trust and confide in; someone with all the attributes of a wife. They spent the first three weeks of December alone together in Paul’s remote Scottish farm­house and four days later, on Christmas Day, 1967, they announced to Paul’s family - perhaps slightly to their own surprise - their engagement.

— in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

Jane and Paul make a very loving and lovely couple. Everyone agrees on this. […] Paul and Jane have more time together, on their own, than probably the other Beatle couples. They do get away together, to places like their Scottish home, thanks to Jane. They were the first to want to move to the country for good, to a quieter smaller house, which John and George now also want to do.

—in Hunter Davies’ The Beatles (1968).

When they got engaged, on Christmas Day 1967, all these problems were in the past. Maharishi, for a long time, was the only little point of difference, although it was all amicable. Jane didn’t fall for him when the others did, although she understood the attraction. She would obviously have preferred to try to reach a spiritual state on their own. Paul wasn’t as committed as George and John when he went with Jane to India in 1968, but he felt there was something there that would help him, that might answer his questions. So Jane agreed to go with him. 

— in Hunter Davies’ The Beatles (1968).

Suffice it to say, Paul didn’t get his answers. In fact, the reality he knew was about to crumble.

The summer of 1968 was a horrible storm of drugs, anxiety and heartbreak, where he had to take care of this budding enterprise while managing a band and losing both his partners. And I think Alistair Taylor’s descriptions of a completely wrecked Paul reflect all of that. 

It’s curious then how Paul recalls his reaction to the calling off of the engagement later:

I don’t remember [his and Jane’s eventual] breakup as being traumatic, really. I remember more one time when she was working at the Bristol Old Vic and she’d got a boyfriend in Bristol and was going to leave me for him. That was wildly traumatic, that was ‘Uhhhh!’ Total rejection! We got back together again but I had already gone through that when we eventually split up. It seemed it had to happen. It felt right.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

They were eventually both at peace with the decision. Paul has expressed that he had an intuitive unconscious reticence over actually marrying Jane. And Jane herself had felt that they’d grown too much and apart as people. She surmises: 

“And I had four [wonderful years].

“No, it wasn’t love at first sight on my side. It was several months before I felt at all certain. And of course, I was young. Only seventeen. Inevitably, one changes. After all, Paul himself was only twenty when we met.

“I knew in my bones that the break must inevitably come a long time before it actually happened. Although we had this emotional thing for each other, we found it difficult to be really happy together.”

I remembered, then, the character in another play who had cried: “I am not offering you happiness, but love.” And I remembered, too, how that great J. L. Garvin had once told me when I was Jane’s age: “Everything in life makes either for happiness or experience.”

“And sometimes the experience is more important,” I suggested now.

She nodded as she got up to go.

“I long to improve as an actress and I hope what’s happened to me will make me understand more fully the characters I am asked to play. Anyway, I promise you, I wouldn’t not have had it happen. I mean, I am very, very grateful for those four years. And I am not going to look back in bitterness or anger, but only forward.

“People are such bores who make a drama out of their lost loves. In every case someone has to fall out of love first.”

—Jane Asher, interview w/ Godfrey Winn for The Australian Women’s Weekly: Girl with a broken love affair. (April 23rd, 1969)

So here’s my overview of Paul and Jane. 

I feel like their relationship was very genuine and organic, so much so that they eventually grew in different directions. But they were nevertheless very important and formative figures in each other’s lives. 

And it was personally very interesting for me to see this side of Paul too, the one whose needs are left unmet by a driven, work-oriented, independent partner, and how he reacted to that. 

Jane herself is an awesome woman in her own right, and I loved this chance to get to know her a little better.

As for love songs written from Paul to Jane, I would ask for the help of more well-informed fans! I’m sure many of the feelings expressed in his love songs were also inspired in part by his experiences with Jane. Is there one particular song out there which has been stated to be about her?

[damienthepious]

this time, on Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday: things get worse

No More Changes (I’ll Still Love You The Same) [Chapter 2]

[chapter 1] [ao3] [chapter 3] [chapter 4] [chapter 5]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, (tho not THIS chapter certainly), Curses, human!arum, (but not… because he WANTS to be), (it ain’t good y'all), Panic Attacks, Overstimulation, Rilla Is Queen Of Comfort, Damien Does Not Consider The Consequences Of His Words, The Keep Is Best Mom

Summary: Lord Arum and his Keep have fought off curses before, but they have never dealt with one quite like this. They have never dealt with a curse while having a couple of humans around to help them, either… though it remains to be seen exactly how helpful Arum’s lovers will be, in the effort of restoring him.

Chapter Summary: Damien knows that he needs to comfort his lily, but finding the right words to do so proves to be far more difficult than the poet expects.

Chapter Notes: We promised there would be a happy ending. We stand by that. But we did not say that it wouldn't get worse before it got better. Chapter title from the song Washing Machine Heart, by Mitski.

Chapter 2 - Who You Pretend I Am

~

When Rilla sends Damien through the portal to the Keep - practically shoves him through, honestly, so that she can run off to cancel a week’s worth of appointments - he isn’t really sure what to expect.

(Rilla dashes his expectations of a quiet, tender day spent together the moment he steps into the hut, his heart sinking at the sight of her frantic and darting from tome to tome even before she notices him and leaps to snag his wrist.

“Arum’s been cursed,” she says without preamble, a desperate sort of wildfire in her eyes, “probably by the Senate. He’s not hurt, not exactly,” she says, squeezing his hands when she sees the way the blood drains from his face. “But he’s scared and overwhelmed and I think that the transformation is screwing with the Keep- with his connection to the Keep, too.”

“T-transformation?” Damien says, sounding strangled, and Rilla winces and sighs.

“I don’t know how they did it. And we’re going to fix it.” She pauses. “Somehow. But they made him human.”)

Damien furrows his brow, and contemplates the word curse.

Damien was wrong, before, about the nature of monsters. Or- about the idea that all monsters have the same nature, at the very least. He knows, of course, that it is good that he knows this now, even if it makes his life more complicated. There are monsters who are capable of so much more than he could have ever dreamed, ever expected. Evil is not inherent to monsterkind, just as all humans are not intrinsically good. Arum, in all his complex beauty, holds the majority of the responsibility for teaching Damien this lesson.

… However.

Damien has thought, not infrequently, of how much less painful it would have been, to transition with Rilla into this wider, more complicated relationship that they now share with Arum, if only Arum had been human.

There is just… something very human about him. Not just in his eyes, not just the attraction Damien now recognizes from their first encounter. Damien can imagine it so easily, Arum as the son of some aristocrat, prideful and easily flustered, an architect but without the overlay of dangerous magic. Damien can imagine meeting him any number of ways- at some festival, perhaps. Or- perhaps Damien would be assigned to guard a traveling party including this Arum, and they might speak - as men speak, without knives and bows - and get to know each other in the ordinary way.

It would still not have been painless, of course. He certainly would have still been plagued by guilt over the idea of betraying his dearest Rilla when Arum spurred the heat of his affection, and certainly when this human Arum and Rilla met, Damien would have been filled with feelings of betrayal on the other side. He knows himself well enough to admit that.

But… if there had not been the conflict- the friction- the entirety of a war between them-

Damien cannot sleep, some nights, for the guilt that writhes like a poison inside of him. Guilt, and shame, and when Arum sleeps soundly in the same bed, Damien feels as if he could die from his mistakes. He nearly killed- he nearly murdered a creature so loving and wonderful, so clever and rare and beautiful-

Damien cannot imagine that he would have ever threatened Arum’s life, had he been human.

And so Damien wonders, at times, what it would have been like, to love Arum without knowing how it felt to nearly kill him first.

Rilla said she left Arum in the bedroom. Damien declines to ask the Keep for a portal from the greenhouse- it seems rude to strain the poor creature if it is disoriented, as Rilla suspects. If this also allows Damien to collect himself as he walks, to think a bit before he sees Arum in his new human skin, perhaps that is a benefit as well.

He knocks on the bedroom door. It has been… quite some time, since Damien felt any call to do this.

“Arum?” he says softly, nerves jumping in his stomach. “May I… may I come in?”

There is a brief moment, some quiet rustling, and then a voice calls, “You need not knock, you know. I’m hardly going to lock you out.”

The voice- Arum’s voice-

It is such a stark difference, the way that the rattle, the rasp has been sheared away, leaving a voice that sounds so similar but so entirely strange, so new. Damien is distracted enough that he almost doesn’t comprehend the actual words Arum says for a long moment. He blinks back to himself, and opens the door.

Arum is standing, leaning against the bed, one unclawed hand supporting him against the blankets as he looks at Damien with his head ducked defensively, and Damien feels as if he would know that this human were Arum even if he met him on the street, without context, and he cannot help but stare.

Oh. Oh, but his eyes-

They are still sharp, still bright with cleverness, but there are no violets here. In fact, there is no color to speak of. His eyes are gray, and light, and cool like a pair of silver coins. His robes are overlarge on this new smaller frame, hanging at his shoulders and making Damien keenly aware of his bare neck, his collarbone. Arum’s unscaled skin is dark and smooth, his nose handsomely curved, his lips soft and frowning, and his hair is long and wavy and tangled in a way that sends a sharp sting of temptation through Damien, a hungry desire to run his hands through the softness and help to tame those tangles-

Damien presses a hand over his heart. He takes a breath, and steps forward.

“Forgive me, my lily,” he says gently. “Rilla warned me, of course, but- still it was hard to believe until I saw with my own eyes.”

“Yes, well,” Arum’s lip pulls into an even deeper frown, and Damien finds himself fascinated by the curve of it, by the expressive elasticity of this new face his lover wears. “It is unbelievable, but rather unfortunately true.”

Damien does not need to look nearly as far upward as he usually does, to meet Arum’s desaturated eyes. He steps closer to the bed, and Arum continues to glare, irritation and discomfort obvious on his face.

“Oh, my dearest creature,” Damien says gently. He lifts his hand to caress Arum’s cheek, and Arum twitches, baring his teeth just slightly. “This must be terribly trying for you.”

Arum huffs. “I don’t have the first clue how the lot of you manage to move without a tail, how you manage to exist at all in such a fragile state-”

“We make do,” Damien says with a wry smile. “As will you.” He pauses. “For- for however long this lasts, of course.”

“With my luck,” Arum sneers, clenching his fists so his claws- no, his nails dig into his palms. After a moment, the tension in his frame softens, and then he sighs. “No, no. Amaryllis- between myself and Amaryllis- the three of us together- I must believe that it will not be long.”

“Of course not,” Damien says automatically, and Arum’s jaw clenches before he sighs again.

Arum lifts his hand from the bed and wobbles slightly, and Damien steadies him, curling a hand around his back. Arum stiffens, again, but after a breath he leans into Damien.

“I’m sick of this room,” he mutters, not looking at the knight. “Let’s go- the kitchen, the scroll room, the snail garden, I don’t care but I won’t sit helpless in that bed another moment.”

“Rilla was quite insistent that you rest,” Damien says, mild. Arum scowls in response, and Damien probably shouldn’t find it as cute as he does, the way his nose wrinkles with the force of his irritation.

“And I will surely acquiesce to her expertise,” he drawls, “but I need not rest confined here. A balcony. Some air,” he decides. “Keep, a portal to-”

He stops himself, his expression going entirely still, and there is a strange brightness in his grey eyes that Damien does not know what to do with.

“Perhaps it would be best not to bother the poor thing,” Damien suggests. “Certainly there is a balcony close enough that we may walk there without much strain, yes?”

“Of course,” Arum agrees, voice low. “Come, then, honeysuckle.”

Arum leans more fully on Damien, slinging his arm around his shoulder with an odd little wince, and the poet leads them out into the halls, guiding Arum’s steps. Their progress is heartbreakingly slow- Damien has to bite his tongue to keep from spouting words of sympathy whenever Arum stumbles, when his ankles wobble, when he huffs out bitter, frustrated breaths. Damien knows that Arum abhors sympathy; he finds it performative. Demeaning. Damien feels himself lucky enough that his beloved is willing to allow him to help even this much while he acclimates to this new form.

Arum’s gait improves a bit even by the time they reach the balcony Arum has in mind, an enormous ensconced bulb of soft thick leaves opening high over the swamp, high enough that they won’t possibly be visible from below and circled with dense mossy seating.

Arum releases his grip on Damien and awkwardly sinks to sitting on one of the mounds of softness, wincing and resettling his legs underneath him twice before he seems to find a comfortable position, and after a moment Damien sits beside him, staring out over the swamp with a deep sigh.

“Rest,” Arum mutters bitterly. “As if I could possibly rest in this state.”

Damien glances to the side, watching as Arum curls his hands into impotent claws, his entire face contorting in a scowl.

“I find it is best to take our darling Rilla’s advice, even when it seems difficult,” Damien says, and Arum scowls even harder.

“Am I not doing so? Am I not, despite my deepest instincts, sitting idly while this affliction settles into my malformed new bones, merely because she advised I do so?” he says in a bark, his eyes flashing furiously towards Damien. He winces quickly after, though, his shoulders sinking. “I am… trying. I am trusting. I know that I will not be able to do anything to mitigate this damage without my-” he breaks off. “On my own,” he finishes. “So all I may do until Amaryllis returns is… nothing.”

“Oh, my lily,” Damien breathes, pressing a hand over his heart again as if that could stop it from skipping. “I am so terribly sorry. How- is there anything-” Damien’s hands flutter in his own lap, unsure. “I know I am not- skilled in such a way as Amaryllis, and I cannot help as she can, but- is there nothing I can do, to help you in this moment?”

Arum scoffs, but there is no heat in it, and after a long moment of hesitation he closes his eyes and exhales.

“I cannot even… I should be able to hear the swamp, from here. The song of the frogs. The cries of bugs. It is all- it is too quiet, honeysuckle,” he says softly.

Damien stares, and Arum’s face is soft and still and enthralling and strange. “I am sorry,” he says again, because he finds he does not know what else to say.

Arum frowns, and his eyes slit back open. “Damien,” he says, a strange note of leading in his voice. “Are you not made for filling silences?” he asks.

“O-oh.”

“You are a prattler, honeysuckle,” Arum says, closing his eyes again and leaning more fully into the bed of foliage beneath him. “Prattle.”

“What-” Damien flounders, squirming where he sits for a moment. “What would you have me say?”

“Anything.” Arum shakes his head. “Distract me,” he says in a voice so quiet that Damien might miss it if he were not so close. “Please.”

“O-of course, love,” Damien says, though he still has no idea whatsoever what to say. “Of course.”

Poetry- does not feel right. Not even his own. What, should he give Arum words he composed in reverence of his scales and teeth and violet eyes? Should he remind Arum of that which he no longer possesses? A cruelty, certainly. And any other poems he knows- if they mention monsterkind it is only ever in one light, and Arum needs not hear that just now, either.

Comfort. What Arum needs just now is comfort. What must he be fearing most? He seems reluctant towards touch- perhaps he is afraid that Damien will not wish to touch him in this state, that Damien will not understand that beneath this new form it is still his Arum, his lily. He can allay those fears, at least.

“I love you,” he starts, soft and earnest, and his heart flutters when Arum startles, blinking his eyes open to give Damien the same surprised-pleased look that he always does when Damien offers his affection with such ease. Such a familiar look, at home in a new face. “I am sorry you have been so maligned, darling, but no curse could ever tear my heart from you. None.”

He lifts his hand, giving in to the temptation and brushing his fingers along Arum’s cheek (he flinches still- oh dear creature, why flinch from affection?) and softly stroking his hair.

“I-” Arum makes a noise, a choking laugh or a scoff that lost its way. “I- I know that, honeysuckle. And- and it is not permanent, so it matters not regardless. Certainly we will not even have the time to contemplate it. This- this skin is a temporary falsehood, soon to be cast aside.”

“Still, my lily,” Damien tries again, even more gently. “I would love you in any form. In any skin.”

Arum does not answer that. He clenches his jaw, neither leaning into Damien’s hand nor pulling away.

“Rilla and I will love you no matter the circumstances,” he says. “And- and if any curse were to befall you, I am terribly grateful that it should be one like this.”

Arum’s face goes blank, then, and still as a marble statue. “Grateful,” he murmurs, in his clear new voice.

“A curse that can reach out and take you even within the walls of your clever and powerful home? Arum, I am grateful that if such should occur, that you are still alive to fight back against it! That Rilla did not find you bleeding and broken-”

Arum laughs, strangely.

“My lily- it terrifies me that they could place such magic upon you. To my core. But- but don’t you see that it could have been anything! It could have been- you could have been struck by anything. Any pain, any destruction wrought upon the Keep itself- it is, of course, terrible that any such attack be mustered against you, but among all possibilities-” Damien pauses for breath, and his next words come soft, and calm. “Perhaps, my lily, it is not so terrible a fate. It could have been so much worse! You of all people know what the Senate is capable of- without any magic whatsoever, they nearly killed you once already!”

Arum’s eyes flash and he huffs out a bitter laugh. “They might as well have.”

“But, my love, surely this is far better than the alternative! There are far worse things in this world to be than human.”

Arum narrows his eyes. “And just what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

Damien senses Arum’s discomfort, so he pulls his hand back from Arum’s hair, stroking his knuckles down his new smooth cheek instead. “I only mean, my love, that perhaps there are some benefits to this… unfortunate turn of events. Maybe this will turn out to be a blessing in the end! After all, I can finally kiss you properly," Damien says with a laugh, and he feels as if he is a paper lantern, full of light and air and ready to rise, but when he leans towards Arum, he flinches.

"Properly," Arum says, and the old rough edges of his voice are gone. This roughness in his voice now is new. "And what, precisely, did you consider the affection between us when I was myself?"

"I..." Damien blinks. "Arum, I only meant-"

"No. You said precisely what you meant." Arum leans away, and then he musters himself and scrabbles awkwardly to standing, wobbling on his toes, and he does not seem to know how to keep the expression on his face from going raw and furious. "I am glad for you, then, that this curse has made it so I am no longer such an inconvenience to you."

"I did not say-” Damien scrambles to his feet as well, his heart racing in panic at the look on Arum’s face. “But- but don't you see that this solves- I am not saying that we should not attempt to reverse this transformation, if we are somehow able, but if this is not something we have the power to overcome you must know that I will stand with you-”

“For this- for this obstacle, your tenacity fails you? For this and this alone, your fervor, your fire and determination cannot match the task for even an hour before you contemplate accepting failure with a laugh?”

“No,” Damien says, shaking his head, and he is not sure how this conversation has escaped him so fully already. “No, of course I am not giving up on your monstrous form-”

“My only form. Me.”

“I am not saying we should lay down and accept! Certainly not,” he says, and Arum scoffs. “But, I think it is worth acknowledging the possibility. Worth acknowledging that even if we fail, it will be something that we can survive. That it would not be the worst of fates that you could be subject to.”

“Survive,” Arum echoes, the disdain dripping from his new smooth tone. “An interesting choice of words. We can survive.”

“Arum,” Damien says, stepping closer again, and Arum-

Arum tries to hiss. It doesn’t work, exactly; his mouth goes wide though he does not know how to use his new tongue to simulate his old sounds, but Damien is stunned enough that he stops.

“I do not believe that my survival or the survival of my Keep are on your mind just now, honeysuckle,” Arum says darkly. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

“Of course your survival- Arum, Arum you do not know how persistently I fear for your safety. How it weighs on me to know that any of my comrades could happen to destroy you and never know what a unique, wonderful, special creature the would be robbing from this world! With this- with this form-”

Arum sneers, but Damien rushes on ahead, his voice going sharp.

“If you remain human I need not fear that fate for you. Can you not understand that? As you are now- you can walk amongst my friends and people in safety, without fear of judgment or harm!”

“Just because I do not look like a monster does not mean that is not what I am. Do you think your Citadel would hesitate to slay me where I stood were they even to suspect my origins? I have no interest in walking among those who would sooner see me dead. Just because I could pass for a human in this blighted state does not change the fact that I am not one. I never will be.”

“My lily, oh, but we no longer need hide!" Damien steps closer, reaching out. Arum stumbles away another step, and Damien leaves his hand hanging in the air as Arum grits his teeth. "I have dreamed so many times of kissing you beneath Saint Damien's bells, of dancing there with you and Rilla at the Festival of the Three, dancing in truth and not simply in the metaphor of the duel, of loving you without needing to fear losing you to the blade of my own comrades-"

"For all your talk of knightly virtues you are hideously selfish," Arum growls, growls despite the unfamiliar mouth he must use, and Damien stops short.

"Selfish? Arum, I know this is unexpected and challenging, but if by some chance it is permanent, it is not completely bad. This change could only improve our-"

"Get out."

"Wh-what?"

"I said leave." Arum slashes an arm through the air, then pulls the limb back towards his body with an uncomfortable wince. "I don't care what Amaryllis said. I do not require looking after. I do not want you here, I do not need you here. Get out."

"But... Arum, I assure you I did not mean to imply... Arum, you know how I adore you-"

"Keep. Keep, a portal to the hut now." Arum pauses, his jaw clenched uncomfortably tight. "Keep." He pauses again, and then his lip twists down in misery, his hands curling into not-quite-claws as his shoulders hunch even further. "Keep, please."

The portal raises, sluggish and uncertain, and Arum, if anything, looks even more miserable.

"I do not wish to leave you like this," Damien says softly. "My words were poorly chosen, and I regret that. I should know to be more precise with my language-"

"Precision is not the issue." Arum lifts his eyes, and Damien feels a little bittersweet pang to see the ordinary pale gray, the ordinary round irises. "When I have- when I say, Damien, that I love you, I do not say so and then wish that you were different. I would not prefer you some other way. I love you as you are. Human." He turns his nose up, just slightly. "Flawed."

It's a little like being kicked. "Arum-"

"I ask that you leave, Sir Damien. Amaryllis demanded that I rest, and I will not rest while you are here."

"But you must understand how much of a boon-"

"You are not listening to me. Get out," Arum snarls. "Do not make me ask you again."

Arum’s eyes have gone bright, this miserable twist of his mouth overtly tearful. “Oh, Arum-”

“Oh,” Arum says with a vicious, false laugh as he swipes his hands clumsily over his face, disrupting the tracks of tears as quickly as they come. “Oh, so fury as well spurs this incessant weeping? Fear, yes, and sorrow, enough sense is made there, but even in anger I am forced into this ridiculous hiccuping folly?”

“Arum,” Damien says, his heart pulling as he steps forward, but Arum stumbles awkwardly back until he is pressed against the bark wall of the balcony, baring his teeth in a way that manages to look inhuman even on his human face.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare touch me. I told you to leave and I meant it. Would you ignore my wishes now, Sir Damien, when I am inarguably too weak,” he spits the word, voice cracking in the middle, “to do anything to stop you? There seems nothing honorable in that.”

“No,” Damien says, wide-eyed and shaking his head. “No, of course I don’t wish to- I merely- I cannot stand the thought of leaving you like this when you are clearly in such a state of-”

“And I cannot stand to be near you in such a state,” Arum says, his voice more waver than tone. “Leave,” he roars, and Damien-

Damien doesn’t have the opportunity to argue again, because the Keep drops a trio of vines, and gently but firmly shoves Damien back through the portal, and then Damien is gone.

~

Damien is gone. The portal closes, and Arum is alone. He stands, keenly aware of too much ill-fitting fabric still overwhelming his skin. His breaths come in shuddering gasps, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t trust himself to walk anywhere successfully, and he isn’t keen on falling again, so instead he just sits down where he is. Collapses, really, into a heap on the ground.

The Keep warbles at him, and he can hear a vague question and the concern that bleeds through its tone but-

“Keep, I-” He breaks off and chokes back the lump in his throat, feeling the tears filling his eyes again and hating this all the more for that, because he can’t control that either. “I can’t understand you. I can't-”

He hunches in on himself, suddenly and keenly aware of just how alone he is. He feels more isolated, even, then when he pushed Amaryllis through the portal after they soothed the Keep to sleep. Even then, he had thought it for the best. He didn’t want her to go, but she had done her job and she had to go home, to leave before he became too weak to let her slip through his greedy grasp, and he’d known the Keep would soon awaken well-rested and healthy again.

Now, he wants so desperately for Amaryllis to return and insist that they can fix this. For the Keep’s soft influence in his mind, letting him know that they will both be alright. That they will make it through this. But he is, for the first time, completely and utterly alone. "Keep, please, I-"

He can't finish the sentence. He's not sure what he would have said anyway. And it doesn't even matter, does it? He cannot communicate with the Keep anyway. He has no words for the sharpness of his isolation. Instead, a sob wracks through his body and he wraps his arms around his waist and curls in on himself even further, and he is utterly unable to stop the tears as they come.

The Keep sings something around him, uncertain and distant, and every unconveyed message makes Arum feel even more broken. Even more alone. He can’t stop the way his breaths go ragged and violent, either, or the way his heart is thudding, or the way that no matter how fast he scrubs the wetness from his cheeks he simply can’t outpace his own tears, and he burns with hatred for this body he is trapped in.

The song comes again, merely music now. Arum fists his hands over his ears, dulling the already dull sense even further. He can’t understand, so why listen?

The third time the Keep sings to him, the melody is followed by touch. Arum jerks in surprise, but even with skin this sensitive the Keep’s vines are too familiar and a shuddering sigh leaves him as the Keep wraps him up in the closest it can get to a cocoon of comfort. Ordinarily he would push the vines off, would snap that he is not a hatchling to be coddled, but the cool leaves are soft and gentle and familiar, and he leans as much as he can into the embrace.

Cocooned in the moss and vines and leaves, Arum almost believes he could leave this body behind and become one with the Keep again, could sink into the green and lose himself entirely. He can’t understand the gentle coos vibrating through the space all around him, but he feels them nonetheless, and even without words its message is clear.

I’m here. I’m here. I love you. I’m still here.

Not alone. It’s not the same, without their link, without the easy language that should pass between them, but Arum isn’t alone. Even with this barrier between them, he still has his Keep. It will still protect him, just as he will always, always protect it.

At least he can be grateful for that. The Keep will be here for him, even if Damien-

Even if Damien-

Amaryllis promised to help him fix this. To help him restore himself.

Did she really mean that? Or was she merely trying to help him stay steady and coherent in the moment?

Does she think as Sir Damien does?

… and if the both of them prefer him this way… if both of them wish he were human…

"What do I do?" he asks, and he hates this weakness, hates not even knowing if his Keep understands him, hates that even if it does he cannot hear any advice it might offer, cannot even feel the comfort it would try to send through their link- “Keep, I-”

Will they make him choose? Will Sir Damien and Amaryllis make him weigh that scale, between keeping them, keeping their love, and restoring himself?

“Keep…”

The Keep sings an airy triplet, gentle acknowledgment he can understand even without feeling it in his mind.

“Perhaps…” he whispers. “Perhaps this bond was doomed from the start, Keep.” He curls tighter, tighter, and the Keep’s vines and leaves caress and soothe as best they are able. “Perhaps this is merely revealing what was always true. I should never have expected humans to love a monster. Not truly. Not without conditions, not without an underlying desire for something better.”

The Keep squeezes him softly, and he knows that it has understood him as it warbles… something. He cannot know what it means to impart with this wordless, unparseable song.

The Keep knows many songs, though. Some, even a human can understand.

So the Keep sways him, swaddled and safe in its hanging bramble, and it sings him something he might sing along with. It sings him a song that he carries in his heart already. It sings to him a song he shares, a song that has passed hands from monster to human or human to monster, and it does not matter which.

I’ll float down with her-

Arum breaks. It shudders through him like poison, like a blade, the breathless hopeless sorrow of this curse, but his Keep holds him all the same. It holds him, and it sings, and it sings, and it sings.

If he cannot be whole, Arum thinks, at least in this moment he may still be held.

[zutarawasrobbed]

After The War (Zutara Exchange 2019)

My exchange piece for @addictofreading I hope you enjoy! This is Chapter one of two. I hope to have Chapter two done by Friday at the latest.

Rating: T

FF.net

AO3

Chapter summary: Katara needs time to deal with the consequences of facing her mothers murderer. Zuko knows somewhere they can go.

The wind is calm as the waves hit the sand. The moon is at its highest point and the stars light up the sky. Ember Island always has the best views. Katara hates admitting this though. For so long she saw the Fire Nation as the root of all evil. But the past few months have changed a lot. Three months ago she arrived in the the Fire Nation and within those three months, she had an epiphany—the Fire Nation was no different than any of the other nations. A nation itself is not inherently evil, she realized, only the people and their actions can determine the outcome of a nation.

In three months Katara learned the bending practices of her tribe at the price of learning bloodbending. But she also saved many Fire Nation villages. And as a result she learned about the people and that they aren’t so different from her after all. She had an enemy who became her teammate. That teammate took her on a life changing journey, and then that teammate became her friend. They now take residence in the very home of the man who they are meant to defeat in the upcoming month. And the irony doesn’t stop there. You see, while people see her and the Fire Lord’s son as friends, they are only seeing half of the picture. Because only a week after their newfound friendship, it turned into something more.

After Yon Rha

Katara spent the first week after the confrontation of Yon Rha wrapped up in Zuko’s arms crying her eyes out from flashbacks she thought she buried over years of self determination and distraction. Zuko thought it would be a good idea to wait a few days before sending word to the rest of the gaang where they were so that Katara could have the time she needed to breathe.

The first night after the confrontation, she and Zuko found shelter in a dam cave looking over the bluffs of Whale tale Island. Aside from the howling winds and drops of rain, it was otherwise quiet. Night came and so did the memories.

Katara started hyperventilating and crying hysterically. She was having a flashback. And it scared her. She never felt so much in such a short amount of time. It was like a dam broke and all the emotions she locked away for years came flooding out of her mind. She couldn’t breathe. The whole room was spinning. A minute later Zuko entered the room and gave her a look that said more than any words ever could. He understood. And with that look, she knew she could breathe.

 It was the first time she had gotten to mourn Kya’s death. As a child, there had been no time; After Kya’s death she didn’t have time to mourn, the war was in full swing and the tribe was panicked and shocked at the news of their chief being slaughtered. The people were told a different story from the truth. The people were told that Kya’s death was planned from the beginning to wreak havoc amongst her people and create unrest. They never learned the truth. They never learned the real target was Kya’s daughter for being born a crime.

Katara didn’t have time to ponder that or take in the lie she would have to continue to feed her people over the years. She didn’t even flinch when her father left. She understood. If Katara had been old enough she would’ve joined him and taken out all her anger on the nation that took her mother from her.

But her father was gone, the new chief was leading their tribe’s army to protect their land. So there wasn’t time to grieve over her slaughtered mother and neglectful father—all she could do was get to work and help lead her people. She grew up too fast and she knew that. But she didn’t realize just how much of a toll this would take on her. And she never imagined she would be feeling all of these emotions while splayed in the arms of the man whose father took both their mothers from them.

She could hear the steady heartbeat rumbling in Zuko’s chest. It comforts her. Like a lullaby telling her it was all going to be okay. This lullaby helps abate her tears. It soothes her and makes her feel at home… Who would’ve thought she would find a home in the arms of the enemy, in the heart of the enemy? Whoa. easy there Katara. You’re entering enemy territory…

She woke up with her head on his chest and to the sight of a peaceful firebender holding her in a manner so gentle, she could break it with a whisper.

It doesn’t take long after her subtle movement, for his eyes to open. And when they do, Katara swears she feels fire being bent up her spine to her cheeks. Have his eyes always been this gold?

The second night they arrive at Zuko’s old family vacation home in Ember island. The air was stale from lack of use over the years and doors were closed to rooms Katara could only assume held bad memories from a tortured past. One room called out to her. It turned out to be Azula’s room as a child. Strange how so much could be said about a person through the possessions they held as a child.  The room was decorated modestly. What stood out was the headless doll which Zuko said was given to her from their Uncle.  The more she analyzed the room, the more stifling it felt and anger took the place of curiosity. Azula had a childhood. She did not.

After what felt like hours of contemplation, Katara decided this room was too much for her to handle, and sought out the comfort she was given yesterday. She felt a pull in her chest she dare not name, and found Zuko in his room doing the same thing she was... Remembering. He didn’t hear her come in. He was too transfixed on the small dagger he always kept with him. The look in his eyes was glassy. A look she knew all too well from looking at her mothers necklace. The room was dark by choice, she knew the feeling, this old room must hold too much pain for him. Where the pain came from was unclear. Was it from good memories that went sour over time? Or was it bad memories that festered as he got older?

As soon as she exhales in solidarity with his pain, he turns to her, and the emotions explode like a boiling volcano waiting to erupt from the pressure, building inside.  

That night was a repeat of the first. With one key difference. This time when she cries into his chest, Zuko doesn’t stay still. This time she can feel his hands in her hair. Caressing each strand as if it were mere strands of gold. It’s soothing? Soothing is not a word she would’ve ever associated with a firebender. But that’s what this is, and Katara is not one to lie. So she admits it to herself. Zuko is soothing her. Zuko is… soothing.

Morning comes and the sun casts a light into Zuko’s childhood room. It’s a strange feeling, waking up at dawn. But she finds she kind of likes it. She likes feeling the calm that comes with the light of the sun rising and the knowledge of the moon setting. Her pillow is also quite comfortable; its constant rhythm is a melody she’s coming to memorize. Katara knows this could be potentially dangerous. Using her former enemy’s chest as a pillow, and the melody of his heart as her song. But feeling his arms wrapped protectively around her and a gentle hand cradling her head to his heart. She can’t find it in herself to care. In fact… She revels in it.

The third night is not like the first two. Zuko is there holding her again. It’s become a silent understanding between the two. They keep their distance in the sun, they come together in the night. Tonight is different. Because while Zuko holds her to his chest as gently as he has before, she does not cry... And as she feels sleep taking over her, she hears something other than their joined heartbeats. One word spoken before sleep takes her. One word whispered as if the wind itself was sending it to her ears.

“Beautiful.”

This is bad. This is dangerous. Katara knows she’s in trouble. Last night’s word could’ve been from a dream, a thought, or even wishful thinking. There was no way Zuko would ever think of her in such a way. She is a peasant, she is a waterbender, she is- ‘“beautiful.”

No! I am not-

“-Beautiful.”

She’s in trouble…

The fourth night is tense. The message has been sent with Appa to meet them at Zuko’s old family vacation home on Ember Island. The peace of the past three nights is gone. In its place is a tension with questions and the knowledge that their sense of privacy and peace will soon end. Zuko is still holding her close. Only this time, Katara can swear he is holding her to his chest for not only her comfort, but his own. There is a new sense of intimacy tonight. She can’t stop thinking about how Zuko called her pretty. What did this mean? This unspoken agreement between them was becoming more and more complicated. And the silence was starting to get stifling rather than comforting.

What if I made the wrong decision? I bloodbent again. Am I a monster?… I’m a monster-

“You’re not a monster, Katara.”

She stills. How long was she talking out loud? How much did he hear? But these thoughts come to a close as she realizes Zuk isn’t done talking.

“You’re beautiful.” He says these words as if they’re indisputable facts. His voice is groggy. It’s past midnight. He must not even know what he’s saying.

At least that’s what she tells herself to excuse what she did next. It was quick but no less meaningful.

Katara gently removes herself from Zuko’s broad chest to look at his face. His eyes are open, but they’re clearly clouded with exhaustion. His eyes widen as he sees her looking at him with such softness. She reaches her hand slowly to cup his face. He stays still, unmoving, his eyes still wide with questions she herself didn’t know the answers to. So she doesn’t try. Instead, she lets her actions speak for her her as she presses a gentle kiss to his scarred cheek.

It’s quick. Lasts no more than two- maybe three seconds. But it’s enough for both of their body temperatures to heat up. More Zuko than her, obviously. His body suddenly feels like an inferno, but she doesn't move away. She’s too shocked at what she’s just done to move.

“Katara, I-”

“Don’t.” She quickly removes her eyes from his face and prepares to flee from the situation she just thrust herself into. He stops her before she can.

Morning comes, and so does the memories of last night. Last night wasn’t the same as before. This time there was a bed and they were actually cuddling. No more hardwood floors. No more using cloaks as blankets. Instead they were in an actual bed with silk sheets and feathered comforters. Instead of gripping onto Zuko’s tunic for purchase as the tears rolled down her face, he’s holding her from behind with his arms gently encircling her exposed stomach.

It got too hot in the middle of the night so they both decided it was best to shed some clothing. Katara lays in only her wrappings, while Zuko wears only his pants. She hates to admit it, but she’s never felt more comfortable in her life. She feels safe. She feels warm. She feels… like home. Very dangerous indeed.

The evening breeze is warm, but chilling at the same time. They decided to get dinner in town tonight. They walk in silence, side by side. So close to touching but not quite. They spent the day away from each other trying to gather their thoughts. It was Katara who broke the silence and suggested eating out. Stupid decision, really. It’s one thing to spend time alone in a house together but- okay, yeah. She can admit it doesn’t get much more intimate than that. Except you let him sleep with you last night… In a bed… Okay, that was a good point. You also cuddled him, too. Don’t act like you didn’t sniff his hair and touch his abs when he was asleep. Okay, her brain really needed to stop calling her out. It’s not fair.

Dinner was served and Katara was surprised to find out that ocean kumquats were very similar to sea prunes and that Zuko seemed to enjoy them. Apparently being banished for three years leads people into trying new things. But that’s not what’s important. They had to talk. It seems Zuko knew that better than her and decided to break the silence.  

“The rest of team will be arriving in two days…”

“I know.” Katara sighs in defeat. She did know. But she didn’t want to think about that. Things were too complicated now. She wishes she could go back to hating Zuko. That was simple. Back then, there was no gray area. Now, all there ever seems to be is gray. But not between good and evil. Not between love and hate- she doesn’t think hating him would even be possible at this point. But maybe… Maybe she never did. Questions like this only make things harder…

“I’m sorry for last night.”

That got her attention. Apparently the shock on her face was evident enough for him to continue, “I mean. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for betraying you back in the caves. I’m sorry for hunting down your friends—I never wanted anyone to get hurt—I still don’t. I never meant for anything to happen-”

Katara could tell he was just saying whatever words he could get out of his mouth. It was kind of adorable actually... A lot of things have been adorable about Zuko lately… “I’m not.”

Those words shut him up. “What? What do you-”

Katara reaches across their table and grabs his hands.

“I’m not sorry for last night. I wanted it. Nothing happened, but…” a blush started heating her face. “I know what you’re feeling.”

Zuko gulps. “You do?”

“I think so… I hope so.” She whispers the last sentence to herself. She needs to be more upfront. They’re too similar. She knows he’s not going to make the first move because she won't either. But someone has to. Someone has to start talking and stop avoiding things. She knows where their avoidance comes from. Fear.

Fear of losing someone. They both lost someone. Their mothers. Their homes. Themselves… The idea of talking about something that could change everything they’ve both worked so hard to create is what stops her—what stops them. Zuko’s never backed down from a challenge before. She knows that because she’s seen it with her own eyes. Watching his undying determination to get what he wanted was really inspiring. Even while they were on opposite sides, she could always admire his strength. He never gave up and neither did she. They never backed down from a fight. But emotions… That’s a different story. They both lost so much. They only just found each other. She knows how he’s feeling.

He’s feeling like he’s finally found a piece of himself he didn’t even know was missing. Someone who understands him, through and through. Someone who can see what he’s thinking before he does. Katara knows this because she feels the same way. She wants to tell him she understands. Tell him that she knows the fear in his eyes because they match her own. But one of them has to make the first move… So, she goes first.

“Zuko, I-” The words die on her lips because another pair are very much in the way at the moment. And she has no desire to stop them. Everything around her stills as she finally gives in to what she’s been holding back inside her for so long.

Kissing Zuko was not like kissing anyone else. Kissing Jet was rough and passionate, but that’s all it was. He was her first kiss and she’ll always cherish that first experience. Kissing Aang was… well, it wasn’t really anything. The first time they kissed was a do or die situation. She didn’t really think much of it. It just was. Never in a million years would she think he actually felt something for her. She thought he understood where they stood. She was his guide, he was her responsibility. To say him kissing her at the invasion was a shock, would be an understatement. It was surprising but also very abrupt. She didn’t really have enough time to react. All she knew was that when it was over, it wasn’t what she wanted. But Zuko…

Kissing Zuko was like swimming in a hot spring slowly boiling over. It felt hot and cold at the same time. Push and pull, water and fire… Balance. It felt like two puzzle pieces finally coming together to make something amazing. It was soft and gentle. Yet strong and intense all the same. Passion was there. But not overwhelmingly so. It was perfect. You will marry a powerful bender.

Both she and Zuko pull back at the same time as soon those words flew through her mind. Did he hear it, too?

Little did Katara know that Zuko was hearing something similar in his brain as well Destiny is a funny thing, Prince Zuko.

That night they don’t leave each other’s side. They spend the rest of the evening watching the stars on the beach and when Zuko gives her a shell saying it reminded him of her, she kissed his burnt cheek and rested her head on his shoulder with his arms around her keeping her close to his chest.

[teacupfulofstarshine]

but for just one day let’s only think about love

(a gift for my darling wife @notveryglittery!!! you mentioned wanting more fluff, and i have delivered! i hope you enjoy it, princess!) 

summary: it's the eve of their big day, and roman and patton want everything to be perfect. luckily, they've got their best friends in the world helping make sure everything goes smoothly - and who could ask for better friends? (OR: an absurdly fluffy royality wedding fic written for my lovely wife dani!)

pairings: romantic royality, background romantic analogical

word count: ~5759 

(cw: the briefest anxiety in the beginning, tooth-rotting fluff)

read it on ao3!

“Why did I let you talk me into wearing a white tuxedo?!”

Roman drapes himself over Logan’s couch, knocking his best friend’s newspaper out of his hands as he flops into his lap. Logan stares at him, unimpressed.

“I did not talk you into anything. On the contrary, I attempted to tell you that wearing a white tuxedo was a terrible idea.”

“Why didn’t I listen to you?!” “I have been asking myself that question since you met me. However, the reason you gave me for your current misstep was, and I quote.” Logan presses the back of his hand to his forehead and drapes himself against the back of the couch. “I have to wear a white tuxedo!” he gasps, imitating Roman’s voice and mannerisms to a truly creepy degree. “Only a white tuxedo will offset my perfect golden tan and make me appear to glow when the sunlight strikes me just so! And since Patton always calls me his sunbeam, it seems only fitting that I should be truly radiant for our wedding day! Though not as radiant as Patton of course - ah, my lovely fiancé! How have I gone more than six whole seconds without mentioning -”

“Alright, alright, I get it!” Roman grouses, shoving at Logan’s chest to make him stop. Logan sits up, adjusts his tie, and leans over Roman to get his newspaper off the ground. Rather than reading it, however, he folds it neatly.

“What is this really about, Roman?” “I’m regretting my fashion choices, Logan! Obviously, I -”

“Roman, be honest with me. It is not the suit which troubles you, is it?”

Roman sits up, clasping his hands together and leaning forward. He looks at Logan, dark chocolate eyes hidden behind his bangs. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Not to the average eye, perhaps. But we have known each other since we were approximately fourteen months old, Roman. There is very little that you can hide from me.”

“Geez, Lo, don’t I have any secrets?” Roman jokes. Logan rests a hand on his knee.

“Of course you do, Roman. But your insecurities, your . . . your fears should not be something that you attempt to hide, from yourself or from me. Please do not misunderstand me - I am not attempting to pry into your life.”

Roman quirks a half-smile. “I know, Lo. I know you’re just worried.”

“Tell me, then. What is troubling you? You . . . you are not getting the proverbial ‘cold feet’ about your impending nuptials, are you?”

“No! No, no, I absolutely don’t regret accepting Pat’s proposal! I - I love him, Logan. I love him so much, he . . .” Roman twists his engagement ring around his finger. “Patton is the best and brightest thing in my life. He genuinely loves everyone and everything so much, and he’s so kind and - and -”

“I understand,” Logan says. “I did not think that was the case, but it was necessary to eliminate it from the realm of -”

“What if it’s fucked up?”

Logan blinks. “I . . . I do not understand. Could you please expand on that statement?”

“I love Patton so much, Logan. You don’t even understand, I - I could live without food, without water, without oxygen, without anything as long as I had Patton with me. He’s so important to me and - and I just - what if something goes wrong tomorrow? What if there’s a hurricane? What if Emile loses his voice? What if someone drops my suit in a vat of grape juice, what if Virgil’s shop catches on fire and Patton’s dress is destroyed, what if Virgil ends up in the hospital, what if Patton doesn’t want to marry me, what if he stands me up at the altar, what if -”

“Roman!” Logan says. He shifts his hand from Roman’s knee to holding Roman’s hands, which have begun to grip painfully at his hair. “You are engaging in cognitive distortions which are sending you into a spiralling panic attack. Look at me, Ro - it will be alright. I am going to count for you.”

Logan’s voice is quiet and measured, breaths even and steady as he counts. He looks at Roman, who does his best to maintain eye contact. “That’s it, Roman. Take deep breaths. We are optimizing your oxygen circulation in an attempt to engage your parasympathetic nervous system. The process of counting out your breaths will -”

“Thanks, nerd,” Roman rasps softly. Logan smiles, squeezing his hands.

“Of course, prep.”

“I’m not - it’s not that I don’t want to marry him, Logan. It’s the exact opposite - I want to marry him so much that I’m terrified by the prospect of the wedding being anything less than perfect.”

“Realistically, nothing can truly be perfect,” Logan says. “Much of what exists in this world is inherently flawed -”

“Thanks, Lo, that makes me feel worlds better.”

“I was not finished. Much of what exists in this world is inherently flawed, and therefore striving for perfection is unrealistic. However, this does not mean that we cannot strive for excellence. I may not be able to guarantee a perfect wedding, but I can guarantee that I will do everything in my power to make sure that it goes as smoothly as possible. You are my best friend, Roman, and I will be here to support you in every capacity that I can.”

Roman laughs, once, before lurching forward and throwing his arms around Logan’s neck. Logan, knowing Roman better than perhaps Roman himself, has already braced himself for impact, catching Roman and holding him. One hand slides up to scratch the curls at the nape of Roman’s neck while the other rubs Roman’s back in broad, firm strokes. These are the motions that have been proven to be the most soothing when Roman gets like this.

“Thank you, Lo,” Roman whispers, and his voice is so choked that if he were speaking to anyone other than Logan, he would be completely unintelligible. “This - I - you - you’re my best friend, you know that, right?”

“Yes, Roman,” Logan teases. “I had assumed that was why you asked me to be your best man.”

Roman makes an indignant squawking noise. “You are my best friend, too, you know.” He feels Roman nuzzle just a little into his neck.

“Love you, Lo.”

“I love you, too, Roman. If it will make you feel better . . . I have made an Excel spreadsheet to deal with potential outcomes.”

Roman pulls away from him, snorting in laughter. “Of course you did.”

“If you do not want it -”

Roman wipes his eyes, giggling. “Don’t be stupid, I know how many hours you must have poured into that. Let’s see it, then.”

Logan can’t help grinning as he picks up his laptop. “It’s color-coded.”

“Of course it is. I’d expect nothing less from you.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Patton, I swear to whatever deity exists out there in the great unending cosmos of the universe, if you stand up from that chair one more time, I am going to yeet my fucking pincushion under your ass.”

Patton, who’d been halfway out of his chair, promptly drops back down into it, giggling nervously. “Sorry, Virge, I just -”

“You’re nervous about this dress because it needs to go well. I know.” Virgil pokes their head out from behind the folding screen where they’re working on Patton’s wedding dress. “You do trust me to know what I’m doing, right?”

“Of course I do, Virgil! There’s a reason we’re partners in Fabricadabra!”

“I still regret letting you name it that.” Virgil ducks back behind the screen, muttering to themself. Patton can only see the vaguest shadowy outline of them moving around the mannequin on which his secret wedding dress rests.

“You’re just as good a seamster as I am, Virge, I trust you to work on all of our orders! It’s just that - that you’ve never hidden something you’ve made from me before.” Patton looks at the floor, wringing his fingers together. “I know you want it to be a surprise and all that, but I get married tomorrow!”

“I know, Pats. I’m not, like, working on the seams or anything! I’m just doing finishing touches! I don’t want you to see it before it’s completely done because I want you to have the experience, tm.”

“Did - did you just say the letters ‘TM’ out loud?” Patton giggles.

“Absolutely I did, it was for the fucking -”

“Language!”

“ - freaking emphasis. This dress is the most gorgeous thing I have ever created in my life. This dress has been labored over - SLAVED over - for months. This dress contains my blood! My sweat! My tears! My -”

“Virgil!”

“Sorry, Pat, but you get my point! This dress is the most important thing I’ve ever created. It’s my best friend’s wedding dress. I want it to be perfect when you see it for the first time. I want you to see it in all its glory - I want you to see it perfect.”

“Virge, honey, you know I’m gonna love it no matter what! It doesn’t have to be a Dior gown, it’s going to be special to me because you made it! My best friend, my partner in business and in crime, my best - human!”

Virgil pokes their head back out, arching a perfectly done eyebrow. “Did you just call me your best human?”

“Well, yeah! I didn’t wanna call you my best man, cause you’re not a man, I -”

“Bold of you to assume I’m human, Patton.”

Patton laughs. “Does ‘best enby’ work, then?”

“You are too much sometimes,” Virgil chuckles, shaking their head as they duck back behind the folding screen. “You can call me whatever your gay little heart desires as long as it’s not ‘maid of honor’, Pat. I’m really not that picky.”

Virgil falls silent for a few more minutes. Their shadow moves more rapidly around the mannequin, and they alternate between muttering to themself and humming to themself. Patton recognizes about half of the songs they’re humming, and tries to sing along where he can.

“Patton, I love you, but you are so far off key you might actually be in another one.” Patton rubs the back of his head in embarrassment, fiddling with the fraying lace hemming his skirt. “Shouldn’t be much longer, just finishing up a little bit on the sleeves and the neckline.”

“How much overtime did you pull to finish this, Virgil? Have you been sleeping properly? Eating enough? Drinking enough water?”

“I have consumed the life liquid, yes.”

“Virgil!”

Virgil’s head pokes out again. Patton squints, leaning forward to see how much makeup is covering the dark circles that normally reside beneath their eyes. “Pat, I’m not gonna lie to you. I’ve pulled a couple all-nighters. But I’ve done my best to avoid them, and I have timers set on my phone to make sure I eat and drink water on a regular basis. I’m practicing self-care.”

“I’m proud of you, kiddo,” Patton says softly.

“I know, Pat. I just hope you’re proud of my work, too.”

“Virgil, whatever this dress looks like, I promise it’s going to be wonderful. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you made it for me! And I know how hard you work and how detail-oriented you are and how super good at your job you are! I know you worry a lot about how good your stuff is, but I know it’s amazing!”

“Pat, stop, you’re gonna make me blush too hard for my foundation to cover.” “Why would you wanna cover up your blush, Virge?”

“I have an image to maintain! I am a cold and emotionless void!”

“You’re the cutest little gender-non-conforming void spawn I’ve ever seen!”

Virgil sticks their face out, cheeks and ears a bright rosy pink. “Patton, you are ruining my image right now.” Patton smiles unapologetically. “Come see your damn wedding dress already.”

“Language, kiddo, I - you’re serious?! It’s done, I can come see it now?!”

“Well, it’s as good as I’m gonna get it, so you might as well come look. Plus, I need you to try it on before the wedding to make sure you’re completely happy with it.” Patton almost trips over his own feet in his rush to get out of the chair as Virgil pushes the folding screen aside. All the air in Patton’s lungs leaves it in a single rush of breath.

“Well? You gotta tell me if you like it or not, Patty, I - Patton?” Patton’s eyes are brimming with tears, hands pressed over his mouth as he stares at the dress. The bodice is gold, with flowy, see-through sleeves of thin, delicate lace. There’s intricate needlepoint along the neckline and the waistline, with delicate floral embroidery on the bodice itself. The skirt is full and flowing, a gradation of blues. It’s so light it’s almost white at the waist, flowing into dark midnight blue at the hem, and the train is embroidered with stars and flowers. The layers of the skirt are varying colors of blue and white, and Patton is starstruck.

“You . . . th-this . . . Virgil, I . . . I . . .”

“Do you not like it? It’s too late to make, like, major changes, but I could theoretically change the - whoa!”

Patton throws himself at Virgil, sobbing openly and pressing soft kisses to their hair and cheek. “Oh, Virgil, it’s perfect!”

“You - r-really? You - you don’t think there’s anything wr-wrong with it?”

“The only thing wrong with it is that you think there’s something wrong with it! Virgil, it’s perfect, it’s everything I could ever want in a wedding dress! I couldn’t have done a better job if I’d designed it myself!”

“Yeah, there was no way in hell I was letting you design and make your own wedding dress, Pat. That would just be cruel.”

Patton hugs Virgil’s skinny little frame close to him, shaking with happy tears and soaking the sleeve of their hoodie. “Virgil, I could not have asked for a better wedding dress. Or a better wedding dress designer. I love it so much, I love you so much, I -”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I love you, too,” Virgil grumbles. They still kiss the top of his head before pushing Patton away. “Come on, Pats, you gotta try on this thing so I can make last minute alterations. With any luck, you’re only gonna get married once, so let’s go!”

*~*~*~*~*

“Where did you learn to tie a tie, the sandbox?”

Roman looks helplessly at Logan, red silk tie tangled around his hands and fingers. “That - Lo, what does that even mean?” Logan laughs, leaning against the doorframe. He’s already dressed in a tailored black suit, dark blue tie knotted snugly beneath his throat, hair neatly slicked back.

“It means that you are attempting to knot your tie with the skill and grace of a five year old in a sandbox. Was that not clear?”

“No, it wasn’t, Lo,” Roman grouses, standing up. Logan takes in his appearance - half-tucked-in shirt, unbuttoned vest, tie loosely slung around his shoulders. “But I appreciate it.”

“Roman, come here. Let me help you, alright? You’re going to look great.”

Roman tucks his shirt in and buttons his vest, letting Logan straighten and smooth his suit before taking the tie in his hands and beginning to tie it. “It still amuses me that you cannot tie one of these properly, Roman.”

“Hey! For all you know, I am the god of tie knots. I just pretend I don’t know what I’m doing so that you’ll keep tying them for me because I know how happy it makes you.” Logan smirks as he knots the tie, carefully adjusting Roman’s collar to make sure it lays flat over his tie.

“I would be inclined to believe you, but I know for a fact that you spent fifteen minutes prior to my arrival here standing in front of the mirror flailing that tie around pretending to be Amethyst.”

“Rude!” Roman screeches.

“Why? I am correct, am I not?”

“You’re right, but you shouldn’t say it!”

“On the contrary,” Logan says, “I am correct, and therefore I absolutely should say it.” He pulls his hands away from Roman’s neck, smoothing the lapels of his tuxedo jacket down neatly. “You may inspect my handiwork now, although I daresay you will find no fault with my knot. And even if you do, I can rest secure in the knowledge that it is infinitely better than anything you could manage.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the most intelligent being that has ever lived, we get it,” Roman says breathlessly, staring at himself in the mirror. “I . . . th-this is really happening, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Roman. It really is. You are going to marry Patton today, and it is all going to be perfect.”

Roman’s hair is curled, falling neatly around his face in soft waves and ringlets that perfectly frame his eyes. Despite his penchant for dramatics, his makeup today is remarkably subtle. His eyelashes are darker and slightly curled, with minimal glitter on his eyes and cheeks. The boldest thing about his face is his bright red lipstick, perfectly matching his red silk tie.

“You look amazing,” Logan says. “I am proud to stand at your side as your best man.”

“Thanks, Lo,” Roman says, tipping his head back to knock gently against Logan’s shoulder. “But you can’t do that - not yet, anyway.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re not wearing any makeup.”

“Roman. There is a lifetime ban on you putting any sort of products on my face. You know this. Need I bring up -”

“Lo, please? I promise I won’t do anything too dramatic, and it’s not that I think you look ugly without it I just think it would complete the look! Please, please let me do this? For my big day?”

He bats his definitely-mascara’d eyelashes, and Logan sighs. “I reserve the right to veto the look if I think it is too ‘out there’, Roman.”

“Oh, thank you thank you thank you! You won’t regret it, I promise!”

Twenty minutes later, Logan is blinking at his reflection in the mirror to clear the phosphenes from Roman furiously blotting foundation against his face. True to his word, Roman has not done anything too dramatic - Logan recognizes minimal contouring on his cheeks, shimmery silver eyeshadow, the barest trace of eyeliner. He looks . . . he looks good.

“Do you like it?” Roman worries. “I can take it off if it’s too much, I -”

“Roman, I - it is - satisfactory,” Logan cuts him off, trying not to sound choked up.

“Damn it, Lo! You’re gonna make me cry with all your compliments, and if my mascara runs I’ll kill you I swear to God.”

“With your penchant for crying at emotional situations, I’m impressed that you think you’re getting through this wedding without wearing waterproof mascara.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Patton, if you don’t stop moving I’m gonna take your eye out with the mascara wand!”

“It’s rude to threaten someone on their wedding day,” Patton giggles. “It’s not a threat!” Virgil snaps. “You’re so damn ticklish and fidgety that I’m gonna end up accidentally stabbing your eye out! And then Roman’s gonna kill me to defend your honor and Logan’s gonna help because he’s been Roman’s friend longer than he’s been my boyfriend and -”

“Virgil! Calm down!” Patton says. He gently takes their hands, careful not to let the mascara smudge on his gloves. “I’m sorry, I’ll sit stiller. More still? I’ll fidget less, I promise.”

“Do you not trust me to make you look good?” Virgil asks, in a small voice.

“Oh, sweetheart, of course I do! Just look at you!” Patton gestures to the beauty-guru level makeup on Virgil’s face, from their silvery-purple-black eyeshadow to their dark purple lipstick to the way their cheekbones shine just a little more than the rest of their face. “You’re the best makeup person I know! But don’t tell Ro I said that, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Pat, I know better than to injure Princey’s precious ego. The last time I did that he pouted around for a whole week until I apologized. Not that I meant it - I was right the first time.”

“Hey, be nice,” Patton warns. Virgil shrugs, quirking a smile.

“Sorry, Pat. I know how much Princey means to you. If it makes you feel better, I don’t hate him like I did when we first met. Him not being a dick about my pronouns helped.”

“I told you he wouldn’t have a problem.”

“I know you did, Pat. Now hold still. Emile’s gonna be here to pick us up at any minute, and you need to be ready.”

Patton lets go of Virgil’s hands and obeys, letting them work their magic on his face. He doesn’t see the point in wearing excessive makeup every day the way Virgil does; he likes having his freckles on full display, and he doesn’t mind showing the occasional acne scar or blemish. But Roman had mentioned wearing makeup on their wedding day, and he hadn’t said that Patton had to but he thinks he would feel weird if Roman had makeup on and he didn’t.

Plus, Virgil really likes doing makeup, and they’ve apparently been planning what they’d do for his wedding for years now. Patton would hate to let all that work go to waste.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be done soon,” Virgil says, gently dabbing at Patton’s face. “If Emile gets here before I’m done, he can just wait.”

“I don’t want to make him wait too long!” Patton argues. “He’s doing us a huge favor by agreeing to officiate the wedding!”

“Please, Pat, you didn’t even have to pay Emi. He just loves weddings. He’s a loser like that.”

“Don’t you like them too, Virge?”

“I will admit that over my dead body, and I am denying any candor in your statements,” Virgil says, smooth and practiced. “Now blink onto my finger, I’m almost done.”

Emile shows up right as Virgil is preparing to put Patton’s lip gloss on. “Virgie! How’s my favorite twin?”

“I am your only twin, Emile, and I hate that nickname,” they grouse.

“Oh, look at you! You look so pretty!” Emile coos. Patton is inclined to agree; Virgil is wearing a silver button-down with a black vest, and a tie the same rich purple as their flowing knee-length skirt. Tall black boots lace up to just beneath their knees, and they have flowers matching the ones in Patton’s bouquet woven into their French-braided hair.

“Thanks, Emi. You look . . . adequate.”

“Oh, Virgil! That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!” Emile squeals, twirling around to show off the flaring of their pleated pink dress. “You’re doing such a good job with Patton’s face! Did you paint his nails, too?”

“Well, someone had to do it,” Virgil grouses, but based on their tone Patton knows that they’re pleased with their twin’s praises, smiling shyly as they focus on carefully applying his lipgloss. “Pat, smack your lips together, and then you’re just about ready to look in the mirror.”

Patton does as he’s told, looking down at his feet. His toenails are painted a bright, cheerful yellow, and he wiggles his toes where they poke out of his sandals. Virgil’s intricate wedding dress fits him perfectly, and beneath his gloves his fingernails are painted sky blue with swirling red-and-gold designs. Finally, he looks up into the mirror propped on the nearby table and sees Virgil’s makeup.

“Oh, Virgil,” he whispers, putting his glasses on and seeing his face in sharp, striking clarity. “I don’t care what you said about the dress, I’m paying you extra for this.”

“Pat, you don’t have to -”

“It’s happening, Virgil, whether you like it or not,” Patton sniffles, and then he’s hugging Virgil tightly.

“Hey - careful, Pat, your makeup hasn’t set yet! And you’re gonna wrinkle our clothes, and -”

“Shut up and take my love, Virgil.”

“Y-yeah, okay . . .”

It takes Emile another seven minutes to shepherd them out the door and into the car, but Patton catches the secret proud smile gleaming on Virgil’s face as they help him get his train into the car.

*~*~*~*~*

The church where they’re getting married is small. The wooden beams bracing the ceiling arc like the beams in the hull of a ship; when they’d first inspected the venue, Logan had gone on some sort of tangent about the historical and symbolic significance of the beams. Roman hadn’t bothered listening, too busy whispering and giggling with Patton and looking at all of the mosaics and stained glass and gilded paintings.

Now, standing at the altar, Emile at his side and Logan at his back, he tilts his head up, up, up to look at the ceiling. Dimly, he remembers Logan’s voice saying, “It is meant to represent the hull of the ark, the ship that supposedly carried two of every animal to safety during the Great Flood of the Christian mythos. The thought in designing the church to mimic this boat is that it will carry the members of its congregation safely to heaven.”

Privately, Roman hopes that this marriage will carry his and Patton’s relationship through the rest of their lives. He knows the divorce rate in America, he knows how likely it is that the average marriage won’t work out. But he refuses to let himself go down that road. He loves Patton, and Patton loves him. They’ve discussed their future a million and one times - he knows how committed he is to making this work. This is going to be the start of the rest of their lives.

His cousin Thomas is up in the choir loft, gently cracking his fingers and running them lightly over the gleaming keys of the organ. Roman can see Virgil waiting in the first pew, gazes out across the sea of faces belonging to his and Patton’s friends and families. Thomas looks down at him from the choir loft and cocks his head to the side, asking if it’s time. Roman looks down the aisle and sees two silhouettes waiting behind the opaque glass doors, glances up to Thomas, and nods. Thomas begins to play, letting a few instrumental bars pass by before he starts singing, voice rich and strong.

The door opens, and Roman loses all the breath in his lungs in one swift, silent rush.

Patton walks down the aisle slowly, timing his footfalls perfectly with the beats of the song. There’s a shimmery veil over his face, held in place by a glimmering silver tiara with sparkling gemstone flowers. Roman hasn’t even seen his face yet, and already he knows Patton is gorgeous.

The dress is stunning; he can see Virgil beaming, and he makes a mental note to slip a hundred dollars into their pocket before the night is over. He knows exactly how hard they’ve been working on this secret project, and how long they’ve been working on it, too. He’s seen Virgil’s handiwork, of course, wears their neat, precise stitches in a lot of his clothing. But that’s mostly minor tweaks - hemming pants here, fixing a torn sleeve there. This is the first time he’s seen one of Virgil’s original creations.

If this dress doesn’t get them catapulted to center stage of New York fashion week, Roman is going to sue the entire fashion industry.

The top is all delicate lace and intricate embroidery, clever flower patterns and flowy sleeves. But it’s the lower half that’s drawing gasps and exclamations from the wedding guests. There’s a pure white ribbon wrapped around Patton’s waist, tied neatly in a bow behind him. The skirt starts off pure white, but as it descends it becomes pale blue, growing deeper and darker and fuller and richer as it heads toward the floor. The train is a midnight blue, so dark it’s almost black, with shimmering stars and flowers sewn in. It’s only because Roman knows Patton asked for one that he knows what he’s looking for, but he finds it quickly - the train is detachable. Patton hadn’t wanted to change into a separate outfit for the reception, but he couldn’t very well dance with a full train behind him.

Virgil really is the cleverest designer that Roman’s ever met.

Patton reaches the altar right as the song crescendos to its climax, and Virgil carefully slips up to stand behind him. His beloved’s face is obscured by the veil, but Roman can tell that Patton’s wearing makeup. Virgil probably did that, too.

Roman owes them so much money.

“Dearly beloved,” Emile starts, practically bouncing in place, “do you how do?” His characteristic greeting draws confused murmurs and whispers from the gathered crowd. Roman can hear Virgil’s palm smack against their face without even looking at them.

The ceremony flies by like lightning, but it feels like forever until Emile is stepping back and they’re putting the rings on each other’s hands, saying their vows. Roman pulls Patton’s glove off, smiling softly to himself when he sees the designs on his nails. He takes the ring Logan offers him and carefully slides it onto Patton’s ring finger.

“Patton,” he says. “I - I wrote this whole big speech, and I even had Logan proofread it for me to make sure it was grammatically correct, but . . . but standing here now, looking you in the eyes - well, as best as I can, anyway -” Patton laughs softly, and some of Roman’s nerves dissipate.

“I agonized over the right way to do these vows for so long, and now that we’re here, now that we’re doing this I - I don’t think it matters as much. I’ll let you read the sappy speech later, but - but right now, all that matters is that we’re here, that we’re together. I love you, Patton, and I don’t care who knows it, but I also really want everyone here to know it.”

More laughter, from everyone else this time. “You are the sun in my sky, the light of my life, the reason I want to keep being the best version of myself. I don’t know if I believe in the concept of people who are fated to be together, but if I did, I know for a fact that I would be fated to be with you. And even if I wasn’t, I would choose to be with you. I - I would always choose you.”

Patton squeezes his hand, and then he’s taking a ring from Virgil’s hands and carefully sliding it onto Roman’s finger. “Roman, my sunbeam, the day that I met you used to be the best day of my life. Whenever I was feeling sad or alone, I would think back to that day and I would remember that you were out there, somewhere, even if you weren’t with me at that exact second. And I would think about the light in your eyes when you look at me, and the way you smile right before you kiss me, and the way you take those few extra seconds to make sure our fingers are perfectly laced together. Those memories always made me feel warm and happy, like I was standing in the summer sunshine. But that’s not the best day of my life anymore.”

Roman blinks in confusion, but Patton keeps talking. “The best day of my life will always be this day, when I look you in the eyes. And I’ll choose you, and you’ll choose me, and we’ll keep choosing each other for the rest of our lives. Sorry I kinda stole the last bit of your vows, honey, but what can I say? You’ve always been the creative one between us.”

There are mixed smatterings of laughter echoing in Roman’s ears, but all he can focus on is the fire in his cheeks and ears and the water in his eyes. “Pat, my makeup is gonna run,” he whispers.

“Logan didn’t make you wear waterproof mascara?” Patton asks, but Roman can tell he’s smirking beneath the veil. “Virgil made me.”

“I told him to,” Logan whispers. Roman considers kicking him, but he gets distracted by Emile’s voice. The ceremony continues on, with Roman and Patton holding each other’s hands tightly. Roman tilts their hands slightly, marvelling at the way the multicolored sunlight streaming through the stained glass glints off their wedding bands.

“You may lift the veil now,” Emile says gently. Roman squeezes Patton’s hands once before letting go and tenderly taking the lacy edges of the veil. He rubs the soft material between his thumb and index finger before carefully lifting the veil and flipping it over Patton’s head to reveal his face.

If he still had breath in his lungs, Patton’s face would steal it from him. His cheeks are glowing and rosy, and his eyes are perfectly framed with dark lashes and subtle eyeliner that brings out his irises. He has golden-red eyeshadow artfully painted on his upper lids, and his lips are a beautiful soft shiny pink. His mouth is slightly open, and Roman just wants to lean in and press kisses against it over and over and over again.

“By the power vested in me by the state of Pennsylvania, I now declare you husband and husband! You may now kiss the groom!”

Roman gently cups Patton’s face, careful not to smudge or smear Virgil’s beautiful makeup job. He gently swipes his thumbs over Patton’s cheeks, right beneath eyes that shimmer with tears. “Hello, husband,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush their noses together. Patton pushes himself up on his tip-toes and presses their mouths together, cupping Roman’s face in return. On one cheek, he feels the softness of Patton’s glove, and on the other he feels the cool metal of Patton’s wedding ring.

His arms slide down to wrap around Patton’s waist and brace his back as he dips him, keeping their lips pressed together as wedding bells begin to ring and the congregation erupts into thunderous applause. He’s kissed Patton a hundred, a thousand, a million times, but this is the first time he’s kissed his husband, and the searing fire in his lips and butterflies in his stomach are fresh as the very first time he’d ever kissed Patton.

Somehow, he prefers this kiss to the time Logan had slapped him a high-five while they kissed.

(Later, at the wedding reception, Patton turns his back to the crowd and throws his bouquet of flowers. When he and Roman turn around, Virgil is holding the bouquet, and Logan is fidgeting awkwardly.

“Would now be an inopportune time to propose?” he asks.

“YES, because this is MY WEDDING DAY!” Roman screeches, even as Virgil shakes their head and furiously pulls Logan in for a kiss.)

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[yaz-the-spaz]

Yaz, hi! You know, I‘m personally not a Larry-Shipper/believer and if they come out, I‘m happy for them, if not, I‘m still okay so yeah. But you know what makes me sad as a Ziam? When we look at Larry, we see two WHITE people being shipped and loved and whatever, getting so much support. Then we look at the other couple who‘s as obvious as the first one. It involves a POC and somehow everybody dismisses that ship. Is it because Zayn is brown? Yk I honestly don’t know what‘s wrong with 1Ds fandom

Hey nonnie,

yeah like you’ve said skin color/ethnicity is definitely a factor when it comes to a lot of people being willfully blind about ziam, but it’s not the only one…

among a host of others problematic ideas/biases, one of the other biggest ones is stereotyping and because, to a lot of people, zayn and liam don’t seem to outwardly present quite as stereotypically “camp” (though obviously they do both have their moments, especially liam) as louis and harry do, it just serves to further feed into people’s inherent biases not only about what being queer looks like but also their presumptions that zayn and liam are both straight (because obviously as we all know being queer means you Have To™ present only in Specific Ways™ according to the Gay Rule Book™ and if you don’t then you’re not/can’t be queer *rolls eyes*).

so while the rest of us, zayn and liam included, are all

problematic stereotypers be like

and when we ask why we’re not allowed into the gay club they go

us: but–

them: *shrugs* sorry, it’s in the rules, wish i could help you but

and then there’s also the issue of marketing and public images. i’m gonna go ahead and assume that since you’re a ziam (and presumably also a 1d fan in general) that you’re familiar with the whole sony imaging debacle which of course only further fed into a lot of the biases/stereotypes mentioned above. but on top of that there’s all of the things done to feed into those images that only further exacerbated the problem, including but not limited to:

zayn not being allowed to talk as much in interviews and therefore being made out to be mysterious and aloof (whereas stereotypically queer men are more chatty and flamboyant more like h&l), being painted as a cheater a la 1dhq i.e. look girls he’s so straight one woman’s not enough for him he needs to have five and one of them needs to be a stripper in case the first four girls/cheating scandals weren’t convincing enough to prove to you that he’s a Real Straight™, and then there’s liam being seen as the dependable guy who can’t function on his own let alone breathe oxygen for two seconds w/o a steady gf by his side, and later on being painted as the homophobic douche bro who wears snapbacks and combat boots and flannel–again not the stereotypical image of a queer man–is 100% not gay and gets uncomfortable at the sight of gay fan art and larry signs at concerts.

never mind the fact that 100% not gay can still mean literally any other sexuality under the sun and it would’ve been a hell of a lot easier and clearer/straightforward to just say 100% straight if that were really what he meant but ofc he chose not to and you have to wonder why (lol @antis any explanations? i’ll wait). or that dressing a certain way says absolutely nothing about who you are or aren’t attracted to. or that if people actually paid attention to what he said for two seconds instead of jumping to conclusions he made it pretty clear that his discomfort with explicit fan art was not that it was about him and his bandmates or even that it involved two men but that it was underage girls doing it, and that his discomfort with larry signs was more about the fact he felt like the focus a lot of times was only on larry and not about support for them as a band or for their music than it was about his discomfort re larry and people’s support for it. or that nearly every time he or zayn have been pictured out with their various gf’s they’ve looked absolutely miserable, can’t seem to remember how to properly hold hands like a human or kiss for that matter and have repeatedly posted song lyrics and quotes and liked other posts alluding to fake relationships (drake’s camera lyrics; real eyes, realize, real lies; the zoems, just to name a few, not to mention them and their families liking, following, and reblogging stuff from ziam accounts and ziam fan art). and then there’s zayn whose cheating scandals were so ridiculous i won’t even get into it lol but i’ve rambled on long enough already anyway smh…

(*whispers* is she done?)

(nope)

so yeah long story short there’s a lot of gross racist/prejudiced people in this fandom just like the rest of the world and a lot of the problematic ideas propagated within the fandom–including stereotyping, racism and inherent biases about not only queer people/queer men in particular but also about zayn and liam as people–are often unfortunately reflective of that. so yeah some of it is partly to do with zayn being brown and muslim and the idea that brown and/or muslim queer people don’t exist (along with queer people of pretty much every other ethnicity, religion, etc. in the world that isn’t white and christian cause apparently they’re the only ones can be gay and the rest of us just don’t exist lol) which means liam by extension can’t be queer b/c he doesn’t “look” queer and the idea of him being attracted to/with a queer brown man is just ew and if he is queer then he Must™ be with another white man, like zedd, but really any other white man he’s pictured with will do just as long as they’re not brown and their name’s not zayn lol. but yeah there’s a lot of other issues at play here too…and good god i can’t believe i just wrote an entire essay about this wtf. it’s been a while since i rambled on like this in an ask though so i guess it was about time i was due for another rambling essay session lol idk even you’ll even read this ridiculous monstrosity at this point anon but anyway to anyone who does read this thank you for coming to my TED Talk. I’m here all week.

[tyranttortoise]

@zalimonium  submitted:  I just had a dream about being the LL. But um, kinda takes a bad turn.

So I was at some like planned get away by the three leaders of a sports club or something that I was in. But each of the three teams were bunked separately and could interact in the Halls of the hotel/lobby/convention floor. Sort of keeping each team spirits together while letting each person relax and mingle. Sadly none of the boys were on the teams, it was kinda like a the vacation from them. (Expect Q because who leaves there phone behind?) And generally everything went well between the fun little rivalries and competitions the got started from the teams. The leaders made sure to keep it in check. But on the last day all the teams got drunk and partied.

And while I wasn’t drunk I was intoxicated enough to allow for someone to do some slow dirty dancing between me. When I didn’t pull away he took it as a sign that I was into him and started to feel me up on the dance area. Being the 110% touch starved person I am and tispy I once again didn’t pull away. Then that’s when he went for my neck, it is the SPOT man. I let out a moan before slowly opening my eyes to see blue across the room at the door in what I thought was disgust. He bolted realising I was looking at him and I tried to chase but lost him.

On the flip side I didn’t know that the house boys were there to surprised me and congratulate me and my team for a job well done. Blue was sent out by the boys to find me since he was the most excitable but he couldn’t handle seeing me out in the open with a guy hanging on me like he was trying to have sex with me. And too him the face I had was pure pleasure. It broke his heart and he ran past the other skeletons crying to hide. Most followed him but red turned to where blue came from to see what the hell just happened.

Well when I couldn’t find blue I just ran away myself, I hid and cried because he was just so disgusted with me I thought. It just confirmed how gross i was for being so touch starved but opening up to people lead to this? Being a little tispy allowed my thoughts to continue without me reality checking myself. I started to claw at the skin on my neck making it bleed, feeling disgusted with myself as my phone was going crazy but I ingored it in favor of having a panic attack.

Well after I left the confused guy who didn’t see blue he figured I was just caught by my boyfriend or something. He got both a devilish idea since i was from a different team and mad that I lead him on while having a boyfriend… He started to Graffiti various areas about me being a slut or how I’m a bad lay. And while the other teams started to see the messages about me someone else came upon them. Red.

Red, ready to beat someone in the ground he demanded people to tell him who did this but either people we’re to scared or to loyal to there teammates to rat. Red went back to blue and demanded to know what he saw… WHO he saw. But blue didn’t get a chance to see the guy’s face. It was buried in my hair as he was on my neck.

I woke up there, the boys all panicking to find me or the guy slandering my name on the walls.

the tortoise’s two cents:

You sat in a little nook, hidden from view behind some stairs.  That bastard you'd been dancing with was either drunker than you thought or just inherently an asshole because he'd taken the sharpies everyone was using to sign each others club memory books and written slander about you on the convention center's walls.  You'd passed one with your name and the word "TEASE" with a little cartoon penis drawn above it as you attempted to avoid everyone, which had only made things worse.

Thankfully, it was the last day of the event, so you could go home tomorrow, and--

Home.  

You curl up, suppressing a sob that threatens to rip through you at the thought.  How can you go back to the lodge and face them after this?  After you hurt Blue?  After they all have you that confused look as you ran past them?

After they read the walls?

You're a mixture of mortified and horrified, and all you wanted was to feel someone be close.  You hadn't even been thinking at the time; you'd been flush with alcohol, following the beat of the music, reveling in the feeling of a warm body holding onto you...

You could see Blueberry's face when he discovered you.

Your neck throbbed.

Suddenly, footsteps padded toward you, and you jerked, not daring to look up.  You could feel whoever it was hesitating for a moment, before they slowly sank down beside you.  A hand set on your shoulder, startling you enough to peek up from your arms.

Blueberry sat there, his eyelights much dimmer than usual, and his usual grin pulled down in an uncharacteristic light frown.  He had been the last person you'd been expecting to see, but it was obvious how he found you; your phone was on, and Q could easily pin-point your GPS.  

"I'm so sorry, Blue, I--"  Your voice cracked, the words flying out of you on the crest of a sob, and Blueberry suddenly wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest.

"DON'T.  I... I OVERREACTED," he conceded, his voice quieter than usual.  

You shake your head.  "No, you didn't.  You... I... I was kinda tipsy, and I..."  You're crying again, and this time you turn to clutch the front of his shirt, burying your face in his chest.  You can't look at him.  He wraps his other arm around you, holding you close.

"...DO... D-DO YOU LIKE THAT HUMAN?"

More forcefully, you shake your head.  "No!  I don't even know him, I just... didn't... pull away," you admit, feeling a fresh wave of shame.  

"sweetheart, if ya ever wanna dance like that, ya'know you can come to me, right?"  

You raise your head sharply at the sound of Red, who's now leaning against the wall directly in front of you.  He must have teleported because you didn't hear him approach.  Your heart nearly jumps into your throat, and your entire body jerks.  However, Red's eyelights suddenly shift toward your neck, and his casual expression darkens.  He strides forward, crouches, and takes your chin in his hand, tilting your head back.  

"who?  that guy?" he demands, his voice clipped.  The rage you'd seen earlier is back on his face, his fangs bared in anger.

Ah.  He can see the scratches on your neck.  Blueberry didn't notice them before, but now he gingerly touches them with his fingertips, his expression one of pure concern.

"YOU'RE HURT!  ARE YOU OKAY??  SHOULD I TAKE YOU TO A NURSE OR SOMETHING?"

"No, no, I'm fine.  I did it," you interject in a small voice, breaking free of Red's hold to attempt to withdraw into yourself again.  This time, understanding dawns on Red's face, and he grabs your arms and pulls you to him.  

"listen, doll.  don't go hurtin' yourself over this.  you didn't do nothin' wrong, 'cept dance with a grade-a asshole.  it happens.  i mean, you've danced with me before right?"  He attempts a small smile for you.

"You're not an asshole."

"AND DON'T LISTEN TO THE MESSAGES ON THE WALLS!!"  Blueberry suddenly blurts, gripping your shoulder to get your attention.  "NONE OF THAT DESCRIBES YOU, AND WE'RE WORKING ON SCRUBBING IT OFF!"

You stare wide-eyed at the idea of your friends scrubbing the walls.

"an' ya don't gotta worry 'bout that asshole, either, sweetheart."

There's something dark in Red's voice, and when you pull back to look at his face, his smirk is a little too wide.  "What'd you do, Red?"

He shrugs.  "jus' disposed of some garbage.  don't worry about it."  He starts to stand, drawing you up with him.  Your legs feel weak, but he steadies you.  "c'mon, let's go home.  the lodge's been real lonely without ya, doll."

You nod, beginning to follow the skeletons toward the door, though hang back to walk beside Blue.  "Are we okay?" you ask, your voice still wavering a little.  He gives you a bright smile and wraps his arm around your shoulders.

"OF COURSE WE ARE!  I REACTED POORLY, AND I'M SORRY.  IT'S JUST THAT I... I WAS JEALOUS."  His voice drops a little lower, and he leans in close, his face beginning to light up a vibrant shade of blue.  "I WANTED TO BE THE ONE THAT YOU MAKE THAT FACE FOR."

It caught you by surprise enough that you nearly choked--but thankfully, you were saved an embarrassing response when you passed by a trash can.  Stuffed inside at an awkward angle that had him nearly kissing his knees was the guy you'd been dancing with.  He seemed to be tied up with a banner from the event, and the word DICK was written all over his face in bright red sharpie.  

Red turns back to you and grins.  

[claudiadonovan]

Please write 70 paragraphs of meta about elizabeth and olive as characters

ok so first of all: i had multiple paragraphs of this typed up a couple days ago and then my computer crashed, so clearly the universe wants me to chill. but here i am, rewriting all the words to spite the universe, for I WILL NEVER KNOW CHILL. (disclaimer: this is largely incoherent, and the organization isn’t exactly thesis ready. tyfyt.)

anyway. let’s begin with something i’ve talked about at length before, because i do think it’s at least worth setting elizabeth’s narrative against the backdrop of the movie’s full scope—that is, elizabeth’s arc is the driving force of the movie. regardless of what the film is ostensibly about (at least in terms of marketing, for obvious reasons; it’s clear that everyone working on it knows better), what angela’s crafted is a love story. bill functions as a steady presence throughout, providing the technical framework (and the shoves that elizabeth needs in the direction of what she wants); olive certainly takes her own journey, but hers is a growth told largely in flashes; it is through elizabeth’s terror and conflict and indeed love that we see much of the movie unfold. all of those things are central to the conflicts we find and necessarily the heart of the movie’s resolution. there is a reason the film must end in the place it does, with elizabeth cracking open her heart and finding the means to build a bridge between them inside.

but i’m getting ahead of myself. (and, yes, rambling already. LISTEN, i was asked for 70 paragraphs, a lannister always pays her debts, etc. etc. you’ve been warned as to what lies beneath the cut!)

if you will let me set one final scene, before i move inside the universe of the movie: i saw professor marston for the first time at an advance screening. the theater wasn’t enormous, but it was completely packed. there were a couple moments in the opening bill/josette scene that drew a few chuckles, iirc, but the moment elizabeth spoke her first line, that entire theater came to life. and let me tell you: what a relief that that was my first experience with the movie, because clutching your leg and alternating between wheezing with laughter and delighted squealing draws a lot less attention if everyone around you is also in hysterics. the reaction both to “i know” and “i know that, too” was incomparable. it felt rare and wonderful, nevermind the fact that rebecca’s delivery remains impossible to oversell.

all of which is kind of beside the point, except that i will say i appreciate the in-universe acknowledgement that elizabeth is genuinely hilarious? BECAUSE SHE’S HILARIOUS. the fact is that angela, as she designed her (and rebecca, as she played her), allowed elizabeth to be SO MANY THINGS. there are a million ways that this could have (would have, lbr) gone wrong in literally anyone else’s hands, but one of those many ways is elizabeth herself. like, i think there’s a particular character cut-out for the combination of attributes that include controlling/ferocious/brisk/kind of a stubborn asshole, especially if you’re angling for the arc to conclude with a display of vulnerability. that sets off the WEE OOOH WEEE OOOH DO NOT TRUST WEE OOH alarms in my brain. but elizabeth is a million things, among them also funny, charming, pragmatic, and so utterly full of life. (i sort of figured “totally brilliant” went without saying.) she is never limited to one or two of these at a time, as they shift along some linear arc; there are moments that showcase particular aspects, but she is always the sum of all of her parts.

one of my very favorite moments, particularly in the way that it establishes both elizabeth/bill and, i think, to some degree the way that elizabeth interacts with the world, is the lie detector epiphany scene. one of the things about them is that they are able to shift very fluidly from “heated debate” to whatever the opposite of an argument looks like. which – i realize in that scene the lie detector was a Huge Deal, but there’s no sense of bill and elizabeth ever stagnating in their arguments; more often, they delight in them. they sharpen their wits and their knowledge against each other – it’s (a huge) part of what makes them work, and it’s also part of what makes them so damn extra. (olive’s utterly baffled face as she watches them that transforms slowly into an amused/fond/still-puzzled smile says all i want to say here.) the point is: they don’t require things like apologies from each other, particularly as a result of their exchanges. like, their arguments are more likely to lead to proposals than to pleas for forgiveness.

basically, i don’t think elizabeth has huge reserves of patience for other kinds of interactions; she spends much of her time with a person who always meets her halfway. anyone who can’t inevitably falls underfoot. she also thinks dropping things like “oh, and if you fuck my husband, i’ll kill you” into conversation during a first meeting with a student they’ve just brought on as an assistant is absolutely fine, especially since she doesn’t initially view them as on the same ~~~level. (not that she doesn’t mean to be hostile—and condescending—because obviously she has some self-awareness, but her casual, wry delivery of it is so very, very elizabeth. she gets a kick out of herself.) my other favorite thing is how much i do think she believes she’s offering some genuinely useful clarification as she carries on through that atrocious explanation of olive’s beauty—she gets it, it’s not olive’s fault, like any of those are reasonable things to say to another person. elizabeth’s answer to dealing with the emotions she was kind of pretending she didn’t have when she told bill it was fine to fuck olive? be a patronizing asshole! works every time!

but olive isn’t bill, and she’s not just gonna spring back from whatever that was, because literally what the fuck is wrong with this woman (i know, olive. i know). and it’s not like elizabeth doesn’t have the capacity for guilt; that’s the whole reason bill telling her she made olive cry finds them in the middle of the apology that unfolds. (let me side note here that bill gently leading elizabeth back onto the edge of some moral pathway with signs like “maybe be less of an asshole?” is one of my favorite things in the entire world.) which elizabeth begins delivering so perfectly awkwardly and vaguely sardonically that it’s hard to imagine anyone could even take it seriously? the way she ends the “i didn’t mean to insult you” with a smile that could physically not be less real—great, look, i did the apology, bye—really sums it up. and the exchange that follows—i’ve done nothing / no, i know, you’re right—is so peak elizabeth, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like she’s sitting there like, yes, i know, all i said was don’t fuck my husband, i didn’t say you already had. anyway, didn’t i say it wasn’t your fault? why do i even bother talking???? elizabeth, who manages to jump into apologies without any real willingness to make overt concessions about any wrongdoing. (an apology that leads them to a speakeasy is much more suited to her, really.)

as mentioned before, elizabeth really is a million things all at once, and she’s a mess of contradictions on top of that—see: completely fearless and deeply terrified, a woman who answers her husband’s admission of her own brilliance with “i know” but cannot accept that olive thinks she’s amazing. a lot of that, imo, stems from the fact that every time she walks into a room, she has to prove herself. so she brandishes her intelligence like a blade, for it is only with a sword to their throats that the men inside her circles (and outside, presumably) are willing to acknowledge her beyond her gender. and even then, no doubt there are many who dismiss the weapon for a toy, or suggest she cannot even hold it properly, so unprepared are they to change a lifetime of bullshit ideas that they craft their own false reality. and bill has known her his whole life; presumably, elizabeth was central to the foundation of his own ideas surrounding gender. he has had access to her brilliance at every turn.

olive is an anomaly. olive catches her off guard. all elizabeth has done is upset her, and yet olive says with conviction almost virulent that it is criminal that they will not give her a degree. but elizabeth still holds the sword in her hand, and so she swings it in defense, instead, in aggressive disbelief. because, of course, elizabeth’s never met anyone like olive.

but, of course, olive’s existence forces elizabeth to reconcile much more than just that. at least, sort of, though elizabeth’s pretty stubborn about closing her eyes and putting her fingers in her ears and waiting for them to go away. (ELIZABETH YOUR HUSBAND LITERALLY FINGERBANGED YOU WHILE YOU WERE BOTH WATCHING OLIVE SPANK A GIRL BUT SURE, YEAH, VERY MYSTERIOUS FEELINGS.) that she manages to frame the conceit of them all trying this thing out more like a research project than like, hi, i like you too? is almost too elizabeth to handle. that the second there is no denying this particular combination of sexual attraction and love—what else is the lie detector good for if not invariably forcing inarguable realities at them?—elizabeth retreats into sarcasm. “open emotional dialogue” isn’t exactly her forte of fortes, is kind of the point i’m making here. (the surprising moments of truth are always interesting, though. “i was afraid i’d always be in his shadow,” for instance, is a startlingly sincere moment of vulnerability, which i think is an important nod to the shift in her relationship to olive. i mean, obviously they started flirting way back in the speakeasy, but it’s inherently a given with that line that she sees them as existing on the same playing field. elizabeth, inviting other people onto her level? a miracle!)

here’s the thing; elizabeth is a disaster, and a revolutionary, and a realist. in an effort to achieve the goals she thinks she can (forcibly! with much effort!) achieve, she has already made concessions, things like: demand her goddamn doctorate due, but surrender her name. i think elizabeth has probably, pragmatically, already had to rearrange enough of herself and her life to fit into the crawl space that might, if she bends and scrapes and pushes hard enough, win her access to the other side—the things she wants, the vision she imagines. (a world she is as stubbornly committed to as she is her Opinions About Things.) bill has not had to make the same kinds of sacrifices, and so giving this thing up—this person up, this person they both love—is inconceivable to him. but elizabeth sees their love as something that has already bent her into the wrong shape; they have lost their jobs, an essential part of elizabeth’s future. bill demands their happiness be prioritized; elizabeth’s perspective isn’t half so black and white. since when can a woman simply have the things she wants?

one of the most interesting things elizabeth says, in the way that it sort of lays bare her character, is the whole: “they are right to shun us, and perhaps they are right to beat us. not because we fuck each other, but because we’re foolish enough to think we’re better than them.” which, a) obviously we have access to the amount of shame she keeps inside her, which is a lot, but b) this idea that elizabeth has always held herself a little aloof from the rest of the world, in terms of her own superiority complex, is v. real and v. interesting. and the idea that it’s that high ground that she feels come crashing down when they get caught is fascinating. like, only when the neighbors were suddenly able to exact judgment, to ruin the lives of their children, did she realize that she’d been pretending to see them from a tower above. that nothing she’d ever done—that no proof of her own intelligence—could change that, that it was her supposed disillusionment of their own superiority that had safeguarded their relationship in her head.

in the end, of course, she finds it is a loss she cannot bear. stubborn asshole that she is, one can only imagine how very long she would have spent miserable and steadfast about the decision were it not for bill’s prognosis. but with a little hand-holding from bill along the way, it’s elizabeth who finally chooses the thing that has brought her the most happiness, and who issues a damn apology like she means it. (and rebecca delivers a performance more than worthy of oscar buzz, dammit.)

WHICH BRINGS US BACK TO OLIVE. let’s start with the descriptors the movie provides for her, first from bill: beautiful, guileless, kind, pure of heart. and then, from elizabeth: an exceptional student, a quick study with a passion for learning, strong work ethic, keen mind, an unwavering moral compass, and a deeply instilled sense of justice. (obviously, a lot of those are re: academics, given it was from a letter of recommendation – a letter of recommendation for a student she and her husband have more or less just propositioned! iconic – and “an unwavering moral compass” is still a hilarious dig, but anyway.)

so obviously olive’s “beauty” is at the center of the film’s early conversations – this idea of asset vs. albatross plays a heavy role, and what it means as a quality that olive must manage and navigate. even though elizabeth acknowledges it as a detriment, it’s also basically the foundation of their first encounter—the way olive’s beauty has already invaded the space of elizabeth’s marriage, professionally speaking or otherwise. and it’s kind of interesting that it’s more or less the assumptions surrounding olive’s appearance and impressions that basically kickstart her interest in psychology in the first place – that she is so incredibly frustrated with her interactions with people (unlike elizabeth, she doesn’t walk a blade into every room she enters).

anyway, i’ve mentioned it before but it’s still one of my favorite things, and i do think it bears noting: olive’s investment in the marston/holloway duo begins with and is showcased in its beginning stages primarily via her admiration for elizabeth. in so many ways – both within the film’s universe and in meta terms – bill is the obvious choice here. young pretty ingénue ™ falls for charming intelligent attractive (male) professor ™ who is, as it happens, very clearly into her. all of which, of course, the movie (delightfully!) paves the way for, but by the time there’s more focus there they’ve also crystallized into people not done justice by those descriptors alone, particularly in olive’s case. the point: elizabeth being as compelling to olive as she is right from the beginning i think says a great deal about olive, who is utterly charmed by a woman so brazenly, indelicately brilliant.

i mean, honestly, here’s the thing: angela did a SHIT TON of research over the course of eight years about the marstons. that’s why it’s so easy to spot which decisions she made that were very active departures from likely history, like this one. honestly, as someone who truly could not give less of a shit about the “veracity” of the movie as it applies to the movie’s quality/worthwhileness/watchability, i definitely think it’s fascinating to consider in terms of the choices angela made—olive becoming a part of the family first as bill’s mistress in real life (note: not to suggest i’m wielding total historical fact, just at least one propagated history, and one that likely would have been developed by another director) vs. an olive whose initial attraction lands at the feet of elizabeth’s radicalism. an olive who is wooed by the ferociousness of elizabeth’s intellect! i ask again: WHO BUT ANGELA WOULD HAVE EVER WRITTEN THEIR STORY THIS WAY. (in case this needs clarifying: no, i do not in any way make this claim to make an “exclusive attraction” claim, i mean to make note of the particular choices that provided the early foundations for their relationship, narratively speaking; obviously, them all being in love with each other is quite literally the entire point of the film, wonder woman be damned.) (jk diana i love you!!!)

as a whole, olive’s relationship to feminism is super interesting and absolutely a thing i would have loved them to explore more (among, like, the other nine hours of things i want more content about). it’s also another part of the whole appearance vs. reality question as it applies to olive (i thought that you were just… / what? / i don’t know. not that.) and what a world that olive, too, is allowed to be so many things: a cult sorority pledge master, kind, just, raised in a convent; the daughter and niece of radical feminists, incredibly smart, the bravest person in the whole movie, etc. etc. (also, THE ONLY FUNCTIONING ADULT. but we’ll get there.) her “guilelessness” is complicated by her history, and even as we are presented with the possibility of naivete, the “observing olive” scene sort of dismisses that cut-out figure out of hand, by way of elizabeth. olive knows exactly what she’s doing; she has lived many years having to navigate precisely the right amount of eye contact to make with a boy, precisely the tone to select. that is practice, and experience. she both finds herself apologizing every other minute and is unwilling to be anyone’s doormat—accommodating, yes, generous, yes, but even as early as the elizabeth/bill/olive apology sequence, she by no means jumps at the chance to accept this vague gesture. she wears her emotions on her sleeve and finds herself the more powerful for it.

olive is absolutely searching at the beginning of the movie – for explanations, for answers, for the kind of life she wants to lead. (for, i think it’s safe to say, elizabeth’s respect—a much more arduous ask than her husband’s.) and the truly incredible thing about olive is that as soon as she experiences the thing that she wants, she knows herself well enough not only to know with absolute certainty that it is what she wants, but also to pursue the hell out of it. after their joint first time, olive literally has no doubt left in her; this makes her happier than anything else she has. “unwavering moral compass” or not (lmao), uh, what fiancé? because the truth is that olive’s heart is her conviction, not duty. if it’s right, she will feel it. and so she does.

olive’s connection to her emotions, to her convictions, to her awareness of what she wants—like, it’s honestly a superpower. emotional intelligence and academic intelligence? honestly, chill. she’s also kind of their guiding light, whether in the moment she steps out on that platform in the pseudo-wonder-woman outfit, thereby changing the conversation entirely, or the first time she kisses elizabeth and rearranges everybody’s headspace. she always casts light on the next step of the narrative, on a place often frightening but a place everybody else will end up by the next act, anyway. (elizabeth may expect people to meet her halfway in terms of words, but olive’s the one reaching out her hand at every turn, waiting for someone to take it. and olive is the one—in many ways—with everything to lose.)

olive takes most care of the children; olive is the one most often sending them off to school with lunches in hand; olive is the most capable at wrangling something edible out of the oven; let’s be honest, olive is definitely the only who can convince their 1930’s (etc) cars into motion when they’re feeling particularly stubborn; olive likely exchanges baked goods with the neighbors and shares small talk and offers the helpful advice only possible from someone who cares enough to be a good listener. olive makes friends. so i ask you: literally, how the fuck did elizabeth and bill ever live their lives without her?

elizabeth probably spends more time making snide comments about the neighbors than making friends with them; bill spends time working on manuscript #17 (and then, you know, the obvious), although i’m sure he can be wrangled out to offer some charm every now and again.

(clearly not enough for Prying Neighbor to call his name when she walks in their damn house, though. I WILL SAY, while i’m here and because i can, the biggest moment of discontinuity in this entire movie is Prying Neighbor shouting elizabeth’s name next after olive’s. OLIVE, yes, checks out, she’s home and available and friendliest most of the time. BUT WHY ELIZABETH??? WHEN WOULD ELIZABETH EVER BE HOME ON A WORK DAY??? BILL IS THE ONLY OTHER PERSON IN THE HOUSE WHO WOULD USUALLY BE HANGING AROUND. I CANNOT MAKE THIS MAKE SENSE. i mean, i’ve since headcanoned that they’re always making fun of the fact that she literally cannot get into her brain that it’s elizabeth with the regular job and not bill, but i’m just saying.) 

anyway, returning from that tangent: i think the exchange about happiness in the final hospital scene provides an interesting echo to elizabeth’s earlier “love – it doesn’t matter” (are you happy? / does it matter?), which is fairly heart-shattering from someone who’s been certain of and willing to pursue happiness throughout the course of the whole movie. but it’s also an incredibly valid question: it’s not as if “happiness” was in the calculus when elizabeth told her to leave, either. what does happiness actually mean to them? (the brief shots of them without OLIVE are! fucking! brilliant! angela’s ability to make that tiny bed look empty without olive in it was a stroke of genius.)

and, of course, “does it matter?” is the question the movie answers resoundingly in the affirmative. in the end, it’s olive’s choice that decides how the film will end. it’s olive who gets to say “no,” who gets to dictate the terms. it’s olive with all the leverage. it’s olive who decides if she will meet elizabeth halfway. it’s olive with elizabeth’s heart in her hands. it’s olive who deserves a new goddamn stove, you assholes.

in the end, it’s olive who has the capacity to shape their future, and shape it she does. for decades to come.

[nikxation]

If you're still doing these. #43, Stan twins. Please?

It has been almost three weekssince something interesting lasthappened on the Stan O’ War, and Ford swears he’s about to lose his mind.

The lack of activity, themundaneness, the boredom of it all isdriving him to his wits’ end. He’d spent the last thirty years of his lifeconstantly on the move, maybe having a week of down-time at the most beforehe’d be off again, always running, never able to fully relax (barring his briefstint in Dimension 52). Thirty years of that life makes it exceptionally hard nowfor him to accept inactivity for extended periods of time.

Having three straight weeks of absolutelynothing is killing him.

Three weeks with no mainland stops,no mysterious islands, no strange or paranormal creatures, no mysteriouslightning storms, nothing. Just ocean, ocean, and more ocean. Even the trawlthey occasionally ran behind the boat came up with nothing interesting, onlycollecting garbage, debris, and the occasional herring.

Stan laughs at him when he grumblesabout having absolutely nothing to write in his journal at the end of the day,telling him to enjoy the peace while he can and that not everything has to be an adventure, Sixer. Relax a little.

Ford may not horde his trust as closeto his chest as he used to, but he still can’t trust the silence.

Silence means something big is justover the horizon.

Silence means danger is coming.

And danger isn’t as exciting as itonce was now that there’s more than just his own life on the line.

That, and he may also just be a bitbored too.

Which is why when Stan startscursing and hollering out on the deck late one afternoon, Ford immediately dropseverything he was doing, grabs his journal, and races out of the cabin, part ofhim hoping it’s nothing serious even as his treacherous mind hopes forsomething interesting.

He doesn’t expect to come out andfind his brother backed up against the outer wall of the cabin, a look of puredisgusted horror plastered on his face and directed at whatever he’s staring atnear the stern of the boat. Ford looks in that direction and sees nothing atall, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as he turns back to his brother andfinds him still staring at that spot.

“Stanley, what is it?” he asks, notat all understanding what has his brother in such a state of distress. He goesto walk towards the back of the boat, but Stan’s hand grabs onto his shoulderand pulls him back, making him stumble slightly. “Honestly, Stanley,” he tuts,shrugging the man’s hand off and continuing forward, steps lightly thudding onthe carbon-fiber deck as he glances around. “There’s nothing—”

“Don’t go any closer!” Stan calls,but that’s exactly when Ford notices it.

It’s some creature, cowering in thecorner of the deck, barely noticeable save for the slight sheen the sun givesits wet, translucent body, its form blob-like and shapeless, and he would havewritten the thing off as some basketball-sized aquatic egg sac or a jellyfishif it weren’t for the fact that it’s skin is rippling, the form undulating and shifting almost imperceptibly.

“Remarkable,” he breathes, takinganother few steps forward before stopping a couple of feet away from the thingand crouching down to get a better look, beyond excited that something isfinally happening.

“Sixer, get away from that thing,”Stan says, his voice tight.

“Oh please, Stanley,” Ford rollshis eyes, cracking open his journal and flipping to the next blank page. “Lookat it. It’s harmless.” He quickly sketches out the rough, gelatinous shape ofthe creature, writing quick notes in the margin about its transparent skin andlack of any visible internal organs and amorphous shape.

Isthe entire creature transparent? Is it actively camouflaging itself like achameleon? Possibly a deep-sea cephalopod of some sort, though it doesn’t seemto have any appendages or bodily orifices to speak of. Photosynthetic?

“I’m telling you, bro,” Stan saysfrom somewhere behind him. “That thing’s bad news.”

“And I’m telling you it’sharmless,” Ford sing-songs.

Itsbody seems to be in a constant state of flux, its entire being moving and shiftingin on itself in constant waves. This could be how it moves through the water.

“It looked a lot less harmless afew seconds ago when it had tentacles and climbed into the boat before turningitself into that pile of goop,” Stan says. Ford pauses.

“Come again?” he asks, stillwatching the creature carefully.

“I’m saying that thing looked a lotdifferent a minute ago, so I suggest you get away from it before—” Ford can’tstop his face from lighting up as he immediately goes back to his journal.

IfStan’s observations before I arrived are correct, then this creature couldpossibly be of the same (or at the least similar) genetic origin as Shifty! Theconstant undulations of its body could mean that its transformations areunstable, possibly making it Shifty’s predecessor.

“Ford, come on! I don’t trust it.Let’s just leave the damn thing alone for Pete’s—”

Orthere are possibly mutations in its original DNA that make it inherently moreunstable. That, or maybe it is unaccustomed to life out of the water, thoughthat doesn’t make sense considering it came on the boat on its own accord.Further testing is required. I will need to procure a small sample of its DNAto be sure—

“Ford! I’m not messing around! Getaway from—”

“Stanley, would you please relaxfor one second!” Ford exclaims, turning to look at his brother. “This is thefirst creature we have come across in weeksand I’ll be damned if I let it slip through our fingers because you’re a littleworried. So would you please just—” Stan’s eyes flash to thecreature behind him before widening in alarm, and Ford barely has enough timeto spin back around and catch a glimpse of the thing, now with spinous barbsprotruding from its body like a sea urchin, the bristles crystal clear likeshards of glass, yet as thin as needles, before the barbs shoots from its backin all directions.

There’s a moment where he feelssharp little stabs of pain in multiple places all over his body, and he randomlyremembers when he had to sew that first patch on his trench coat in DimensionM-616, and he managed to prick himself with the needle enough times to make hisfinger bleed quite profusely. He remembers it because he had apparently leftjust enough blood behind for the Dimensional Border Patrol to identify andtrack him with, forcing him to jump dimensions and accidentally leave behind hislast pair of undamaged glasses that he had gotten from Dimension 0*67. He hadbeen beyond livid.

Then, there’s another moment wherehe considers whether the creature is capable of re-growing the amount of massit just expelled attacking him, and the implications that ability could have onmodern medicine.

It’s with that thought that every skeletalmuscle in his body shuts down all at once, giving one final spasm strong enoughto throw him to the ground before everything goes completely numb and hisvision goes dark.

“Shit!”

Stan sees the spikes a moment toolate, just about to lunge for Ford when the thing shoots those glass-likeneedles in all directions, somehow scurries back overboard, and hits the waterwith a loud splash, hopefully gone for good.

The next second, Ford’s entire bodygoes completely rigid and then collapses in a heap, Stan just barely reachinghim in time to stop his head from smacking the hull of the boat.

“Shit shit shit shit shit…”

He cradles his brother’s head inhis lap and immediately starts yanking out those clear barbs, finding themeverywhere on his front, from his chest to the tops of his legs to a few on hisneck and face. There are just so many of the damn things, and just when hethinks he’d pulled the last of them he spots five more somewhere else. He justkeeps yanking, hoping against all hope that whatever that thing hit him withisn’t…

He’sbreathing. He’s breathing. It’s okay. He’s still breathing.

Fornow.

“Ford!” he says, lightly hittingthe side of his face to try to rouse him. “Come on, bro. Wake up! I don’t knowwhat to do here!” He spots another barb, one that he must have missed, andpulls the thing out. “Come on Sixer. Wake up!” He gives his shoulder a shake.“Wake up wake up wake up.” He has no idea what to do, has no idea what thatthing did, has no idea how to find out. Ford would know what to do, but Standoesn’t. This isn’t his thing. Ford’s supposed to be the smart one with the ideasand the plans and the know-how. He’s way out of his league, left sitting hereholding his brother in his arms not sure whether the man is dying or not.

Whatwould Ford do? What would Ford do?

Fordwould find a cure.

Whatwould Ford do that I can do? What would Ford do that I can do?

He presses two fingers to the pulseat Ford’s neck, trying to calm himself down enough to concentrate on finding aheartbeat. It takes him a moment of searching (and trying not to panic when hecouldn’t initially find one), but he eventually feels the strong and steady lub-dub beneath his fingers.

Good.That’s good. What now?

Gethim inside the cabin.

He grabs Ford under his arms andtries to hoist him up. It only takes a second (and a solid twinge in his back) to realize that’s not going to happen. Ford iscompletely dead weight (wrong choice ofwords wrong choice of words), and trying to drag him into the cabin (anddown those interior steps) will probably wind up doing more harm than good. Hesettles them back down on the ground.

“Ford, it would be extremely helpful if you’d wake upsometime soon,” he says, trying once again to rouse him. “Come on, up andat’em!” He gives his face another light slap. “Rise and shine, buddy!” Anotherlight slap to the other cheek. “Time to wake up so I can say I told you so.” Hespots another barb sticking out of Ford’s arm and pulls it out, going to tossit aside.

The thing winds up pricking his ownfinger instead.

He hisses and shakes the thing off,inspecting his finger and watching a tiny drop of blood bead up on hisfingertip.

Not even a second later, he losesall feeling and control of his entire hand, his fingers and wrist goingcompletely limp and slumping forward.

“What the…?” he murmurs, shakinghis hand and watching the now-useless thing flop from side to side, completelyuseless and unfeeling, not even getting so much as a pins-and-needles sensation.He squeezes one of the dead fingertips with his free hand, not surprised whenhe doesn’t feel a thing. And no matter how hard he wills the fingers to move,they’re unresponsive, like there’s something blocking the signal. He’s vaguelyreminded of that time when that hand-witch (ugh he still hates how that sounds)took his hands, only this is a lot less supernatural and a lot more… familiarin a way.

There was one time, after Rico andhis boys had roughed him up pretty good, when he had to go to the hospital toget a good portion of his shoulder surgically reconstructed. The nurses haddone something similar to his entire arm, and he recalls how strange it hadbeen trying to climb out of the hospital room window with his entire left armdead and in a sling. He’d accidentally smacked himself in the face with thelimp thing more times than he’d care to admit.

Okay.Paralysis and a nerve block. I can deal with that. I can deal with that.

“Ford, if you’re awake, I need youto give me a sign,” Stan says. If this really is just a nerve block, then there’sa solid chance that, with how many of those barbs he got hit with, Ford isparalyzed but still very much awake.

Stan is thankful for more reasonsthan one that the numbness in his hand seems to be extremely localized, notspreading further up than his wrist.

He’s also glad that he hasn’tseemed to have keeled over dead yet, which is a very good sign for Ford.

Ford’s left hand twitches ever soslightly. For a moment, Stan isn’t sure if he’s just seeing things, maybe a trickof the light or those damn cataracts again, but then he sees Ford’s fingers twitchagain, the action a bit more purposeful. Asign. He quickly reaches over and takes Ford’s hand in his own.

“Okay, just to be sure, just… squeeze my hand if you can hear me,”Stan says, almost not daring to breathe. It takes a moment, but Ford’s fingersalmost imperceptibly tighten, almost like a mild spasm more than a squeeze,around his own. Stan can’t stop the relieved laughter from bubbling up in hischest, though it comes out a bit more choked than he would have thought.

Alright.He’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.

Ican handle this. I can handle this.

“I’m just going to say it now whileyou can’t complain about it,” Stan says, his voice cracking as he gives Ford’shand a solid squeeze of his own. “I told you so, you damn idiot.”

Part 2

[recentanimenews]

Devilman Crybaby's Masaaki Yuasa is Directing an Anime this Winter!

Hello all, and welcome back to Why It Works. In the leadup to last spring’s anime season, I wrote a couple of articles highlighting two all-star directors of upcoming anime: Shinichiro Watanabe and Kunihiko Ikuhara. I haven’t had a chance to write a similar spotlight since, but upon looking at the upcoming prospects of the winter season, I felt duty-bound to once more celebrate one of the modern titans of anime. There are a handful of names whose attachment to a project makes it an instant must-see for me, and next season’s Keep Your Hands Off Eizoukun! is blessed by one of the best of them. Today on Why It Works, let’s get ready for next season by celebrating the astonishing career of Masaaki Yuasa!

  Yuasa has only recently become a household name among entrenched anime fans, having made a serious splash with Devilman Crybaby and his recent string of feature films. However, his talent and restless creative vision have been clearly on display all throughout his career, beginning with his work as an animator on children's shows like Crayon Shin-chan and Chibi Maruko-chan.

This remarkable Yuasa-animated sequence from Maruko-chan demonstrates many of the novel aesthetic qualities that would mark Yuasa’s later work. Yuasa doesn’t treat his visual layouts as if they were live-action sets; the backgrounds breath and flow with the characters, enabling a greater unity of emotional intent, and celebrating the unbound cinematographic potential of animation.

That unity of artistic intent extends to the characters and music; the whole world is dancing to the same music here, a choice that embodies Yuasa’s preference for aesthetic holism and capturing the felt experience of a moment over any sort of stable realism. Yuasa’s works are regularly infused with the aesthetic fluidity and sheer joy of great children’s animation; this would be far from the last time he worked on an extended, world-celebrating musical interlude.

Children’s anime actually served as a perfect proving ground for Yuasa, nurturing his fondness for formal visual experimentation and sharpening his abilities as a director, as he embraced consistently inventive, perspective-warping layouts and action sequences. In spite of anime’s limitless visual potential, it’s actually very hard to convey the kind of active camera movements he prefers in animation. Not just character movements, but also entire backgrounds must be redrawn for every shift in camera perspective; what would require a simple shifting of the camera itself in live-action demands painstaking redraws within animation. 

  So it’s no surprise then that Yuasa has pursued technical animation innovations alongside his aesthetic innovations; early original works like Kaiba made dramatic use of CG backgrounds to enable his restless movements, and more recently, his own Science Saru studio has made great stabs in using Flash animation to enable warping perspective shots and active camera movement.

It’s easy to simply categorize distinctive creators as “uniquely creative,” but that would be a discredit to how well directors like Masaaki Yuasa are actually able to synthesize and celebrate the fragments of their many diverse interests. Yuasa draws from a broad array of formal influences, including classic western cartoons, early experimental works like Yellow Submarine (something likely made clear by that Maruko-chan clip), live action film, and even stop motion works like The Wrong Trousers. What we consume directly informs our understanding of what art can be, and by drawing on an array of artistic influences that extend far beyond anime, Yuasa is able to bring all the artistic richness of those influences into his own work. Yuasa’s work inherently challenges us to embrace the limitless visual potential of art, and not pigeonhole our own vision with a steady diet of the comfortingly familiar.

You might think all this focus on visual design and process innovations would mean the actual narratives of Yuasa’s shows are less of a priority. On the contrary, Yuasa’s shows aren’t just visual marvels - they’re also very consistently the best-written, most incisive and moving anime in the business. Though Yuasa’s anime originals run the gamut from farcical to horrifying, he has a tendency to accept only the very best source material when it comes to adaptations - check out The Tatami Galaxy (based on a book by the author of the equally brilliant The Eccentric Family), or the more recent Ping Pong the Animation. The sharp character writing and fundamental wit of these properties fuse beautifully with Yuasa’s own gifts, resulting in anime that embody the medium’s potential as both aesthetic vision and narrative art.

Lately, Yuasa has been expanding his innovations beyond the confines of his own productions, having established his own studio, Science Saru, with the help of key collaborators like Eunyong Choi (with whom he collaborated on an episode of Adventure Time, of all things, and who’s done brilliant work of her own on productions like Space Dandy). Science Saru’s recent films have demonstrated an innovative approach to animation that is only now beginning to fully realize the potential of Flash as an animation tool, as Yuasa continues the restlessly experimental path he’s been treading all through his career.

All in all, Yuasa is a brilliant artist who continues to astonish me with his every new production, and who should be of interest to anyone looking for something a little out of the ordinary. His works continue to push the boundaries of anime's visual vocabulary, while sacrificing not one jot of emotional intensity or thematic acuity. Coming to appreciate Yuasa's works has been one of the greatest rewards of my journey with anime, and I hope you’re as excited as I am to see what he comes up with next!

Please let me know all your own favorite Masaaki Yuasa productions in the comments!

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Nick Creamer has been writing about cartoons for too many years now, and is always ready to cry about Madoka. You can find more of his work at his blog Wrong Every Time, or follow him on Twitter.

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